^:>W^l^ 


I 


LIBRARY 

UNIVE^S  TY   .11 
CALIF 
SAN  OI6«0 


PR 

4735 


REMAINS  IN  VERSE  AND  PROSE 


ARTHUR    HENRY    HALLAM 


WITH   A    PREFACE    AND    MEMOIR 


Vattene  in  pace,  alma  beata  e  bella.  —  ARIOSTO 


BOSTON 
TICKNOR    AND    FIELDS 

1863 


RIVERSIDE,  CAMBRIDGE: 
STEREOTYPKD  AND  PRINTED  BY  H.  0.  HOUOHTOS. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

ADVERTISEMENT 7 

1'REKACE  —  MEMOIR  OF  ARTHUR  HENRY  HALLAM 9 

MEMOIR  OF  HENRY  FITZMAURICE  HALLAM 53 

MEDITATIVE  FRAGMENTS  IN  BLANK  VERSE 69 

TIMBUCTOO 86 

SONNETS. 

ALLA  STATUA,  CH1  E  A  FIRENZE  DI  LORENZO  DUCA 

D'URBINO,  SCOLTA  DA  MICHEL  ANGIOLO 97 

GENOVA  BELLA,  A  GUI  L1  ALTIERA  VOCE 98 

TO  AN  ENGLISH  LA'DY 99 

SCHITTE  SUL  LAGO  D'ALBANO 99 

ON  A  LADY  SUFFERING  SEVERE  ILLNESS 101 

ALLA  SIRENA,  NUME  AVITO  DI  NAPOLI 102 

ON   THE  PICTURE   OF  THE   THREE  FATES   IN  THE 

PALAZZO  P1TTI,  AT  FLORENCE 103 

TO   MALEK. . 104 

OH    BLESSING   AND    DELIGHT   OF   MY    YOUNG   HEART.  105 

EVEN   THUS,  METHINKS,  A   CITY    REARED    SHOULD   BE  106 

TO   AN   ADMIRED    LADY. 107 

STANZAS. 

WRITTEN  AFTER  VISITING  MELItOSE  ABBEY  IN  COM- 
PANY OF  SIR  VVALTKR  SCOTT 108 

WRITTEN  AT  CAUDEBEC  IN  NORMANDY Ill 

A  FAREWELL  TO  GLENARBAC 113 

WRITTEN  ON  THE  BANKS  OF  THE  TAY 116 

ON  MY  SISTER'S  BIRTHDAY 118 

FROM  SCHILLER  .  .  123 


vi  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

LINES  SPOKEN  IN  THE  CHARACTER  OF  PYGMALION 125 

TO  TWO  SISTERS 127 

THIS  WAS  MY  LAY  IN  SAD  NOCTURNAL  HOUR 131 

TO  THE  LOVED  ONE 133 

SONNET.    TO  MY  MOTHER , 137 

A  LOVER'S  REPROOF 138 

SONNET.    A  MELANCHOLY  THOUGHT  HAD  LAID  ME  LOW. .  140 

A  SCENE  IN  SUMMER 141 

SONNETS. 

OH  POETRY,   OH   RAREST   SPIRIT   OF   ALL 143 

ALAS!    THAT   SOMETIMES   EVEN   A    DUTEOUS  LIFE...  144 
WHY  THKOBBEST    THOU,   MY    HEART,    WHY   THICKLY 

BREATHEST.  .     145 

STILL    HERE  —  THOU     HAST    NOT     FADED     FROM     MY 

SIGHT 146 

LADY,   I   BID  THEE  TO  A   SUNNY   DOME 147 

SPEED     YE,     WARM     HOURS,     ALONG    TH1     APPOINTED 

PATH 148 

WHEN     GENTLE     FINGERS     CEASE     TO     TOUCH     THE 

STRING 149 

THE   GARDEN  TREES  ARE   BUSY  WITH    THE   SHOWER  150 

SCENE  AT  ROME 151 

ON  SYMPATHY : 159 

ORATION  ON  THE  INFLUENCE  OF  ITALIAN  WORKS  OF 
IMAGINATION  ON  THE  SAME  CLASS  OF  COMPOSI- 
TIONS IN  ENGLAND 180 

ESSAY  ON  THE  PHILOSOPHICAL  WRITINGS  OF  CICERO....  227 
REMARKS  ON  PROFESSOR  ROSSETTI'S  "DISQUISIZIONI  SULLO 

SPIRITO  ANTIPAPALE" 317 

EXTRACT  FROM  A  REVIEW  OF  TENNYSON'S  POEMS 424 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


[HE  Editor  of  the  following  Poems  has 
been  induced,  after  the  lapse  of  many 
years,  to  reprint  a  limited  number  of  copies. 
Arthur  Henry  Hallam  had  the  happiness  to 
possess  the  friendship  of  one,  then  as  young  as 
himself,  whose  name  has  risen  to  the  highest 
place  among  our  living  poets.  What  this  dis- 
tinguished person  felt  for  one  so  early  torn 
from  him,  has  been  displayed  in  those  beau- 
tiful poems,  intitled  "  In  Memoriam, "  which 
both  here  and  in  America  have  been  read  with 
admiration  and  delight.  The  image  of  Arthur 
hovers,  like  a  dim  shadow,  over  these  ;  and 
as  the  original  copies  of  his  own  productions, 
given  solely  to  his  friends,  are  not  easily  to  be 
procured,  it  has  been  thought  by  the  Editor, 
after  much  deliberation,  that  others  may  be 


8  ADVERTISEMENT. 

interested    in   possessing    them.      A   few   have 
not  been   reprinted   in   this   Edition. 

Another  great  calamity  fell  on  the  Editor 
about  two  years  since ;  a  second  time  he  was 
bereaved  of  a  son,  whose  striking  resemblance 
hi  character  to  Arthur  had  long  been  his  con- 
solation and  his  pride.  It  is,  therefore,  appro- 
priate on  the  present  occasion  to  subjoin  a  short 
memoir  of  Henry  Fitzmaurice  Hallam,  drawn 
up  soon  after  his  death  by  two  very  intimate 
friends,  Henry  Sumner  Maine  and  Franklin 
Lushington.  Never  were  brothers  more  akin 
in  every  moral  excellence  of  disposition,  or  in 
their  habitual  pursuits,  or  in  a  depth  of  thought 
which  did  not  exclude  a  lively  perception  of 
what  was  passing  before  them,  and  an  entire 
enjoyment  of  friendly  intercourse. 

March,  1863. 


PREFACE. 


[HE  writer  of  the  following  Poems 
and  Essays  was  so  well  known  to 
the  greater  part  of  those  into  whose 
hands  they  are  likely  to  come,  that  it  may  seem 
almost  superfluous  to  commemorate  a  name  lit- 
tle likely  to  fade  from  their  recollection.  Yet 
it  is  a  pious,  though  at  the  same  time,  a  very 
painful  office,  incumbent  on  the  Editor,  to  fur- 
nish a  few  notices  of  a  life  as  remarkable  for 
the  early  splendor  of  genius,  and  for  uniform 
moral  excellence,  as  that  of  any  one  who  has 
fallen  under  his  observation ;  especially  as  some 
there  must  probably  be,  who  will  read  these 
pages  with  h'ttle  previous  knowledge  of  him  to 
whom  they  relate. 

Arthur  Henry  Hallam  was  born  in  Bedford 
Place,  London,  on  the  1st  of  February,  1811. 


10  PREFACE. 

Very  few  years  had  elapsed  before  his  parents 
observed  strong  indications  of  his  future  char- 
acter, in  a  peculiar  clearness  of  perception,  a 
facility  of  acquiring  knowledge,  and  above  all, 
in  an  undeviating  sweetness  of  disposition,  and 
adherence  to  his  sense  of  what  was  right  and 
becoming.  As  he  advanced  to  another  stage 
of  childhood,  it  was  rendered  still  more  mani- 
fest that  he  would  be  distinguished  from  ordi- 
nary persons,  by  an  increasing  thoughtfulness, 
and  a  fondness  for  a  class  of  books,  which  in 
general  are  so  little  intelligible  to  boys  of  his 
age  that  they  excite  in  them  no  kind  of  in- 
terest. 

In  the  summer  of  1818,  he  spent  some 
months  with  his  parents  in  Germany  and  Swit- 
zerland, and  became  familiar  with  the  French 
language,  which  he  had  already  learned  to  read 
with  facility.  He  had  gone  through  the  ele- 
ments of  Latin  before  this  time  ; '  but  that  lan- 
guage having  been  laid  aside  during  his  tour, 
it  was  found  upon  his  return,  that  a  variety 
of  new  scenes  having  effaced  it  from  his  mem- 
ory, it  was  necessary  to  begin  again  with  the 
first  rudiments. 


PREFACE.  1 1 

He  was  nearly  eight  years  old  at  this  time ; 
and  in  little  more  than  twelve  months  he 
could  read  Latin  with  tolerable  facility.  In 
this  period  his  mind  was  developing  itself  more 
rapidly  than  before  ;  he  now  felt  a  keen  relish 
for  dramatic  poetry,  and  wrote  several  trage- 
dies, if  we  may  so  call  them,  either  in  prose 
or  verse,  with  a  more  precocious  display  of 
talents  than  the  Editor  remembers  to  have  met 
with  in  any  other  individual.  The  natural 
pride,  however,  of  his  parents  did  not  blind 
them  to  the  uncertainty  that  belongs  to  all 
premature  efforts  of  the  mind ;  and  they  so 
carefully  avoided  everything  like  a  boastful  dis- 
play of  blossoms,  which,  in  many  cases  have 
withered  away  in  barren  luxuriance,  that  the 
circumstance  of  these  compositions  was  hardly 
ever  mentioned  out  of  their  own  family. 

In  the  spring  of  1820,  Arthur  was  placed 
under  the  Rev.  W.  Carmalt,  at  Putney,  where 
he  remained  nearly  two  years.  After  leaving 
this  school,  he  went  abroad  again  for  some 
months ;  and  in  October,  1822,  became  the 
pupil  of  the  Rev.  E.  C.  Hawtrey,  an  assistant 
master  of  Eton  College.  At  Eton  he  continued 


12  PREFACE. 

till  the  summer  of  1827.  He  was  now  become 
a  good,  though  not  perhaps  a  first-rate  scholar, 
in  the  Latin  and  Greek  languages.  The  loss 
of  time,  relatively  to  this  object,  in  travelling, 
but  far  more,  his  increasing  avidity  for  a  differ- 
ent kind  of  knowledge,  and  the  strong  bent  of 
his  mind  to  subjects  which  exercise  other  facul- 
ties than  such  as  the  acquirement  of  languages 
calls  into  play,  will  sufficiently  account  for  what 
might  seem  a  comparative  deficiency  in  classi- 
cal learning.  It  can  only  however  be  reckoned 
one,  comparatively  to  his  other  attainments,  and 
to  his  remarkable  facility  in  mastering  the  mod- 
ern languages. 

The  Editor  has  thought  it  not  improper  to 
print  in  the  following  pages  an  Eton  exercise, 
which,  as  written  before  the  age  of  fourteen, 
though  not  free  from  metrical  and  other  errors, 
appears,  perhaps,  to  a  partial  judgment,  far  above 
the  level  of  such  compositions.  It  is  remarkable 
that  he  should  have  selected  the  story  of  Ugo- 
lino,  from  a  poet  with  whom,  and  with  whose 
language  he  was  then  but  very  slightly  ac- 
quainted, but  who  was  afterwards  to  become, 
more  perhaps  than  any  other,  the  master  mover 


PREFACE.  13 

of  his  spirit.  It  may  be  added  that  great  judg- 
ment and  taste  are  perceptible  in  this  transla- 
tion, which  is  by  no  means  a  literal  .one ;  and 
in  which  the  phraseology  of  Sophocles  is  not  ill 
substituted,  in  some  passages,  for  that  of  Dante. 

The  Latin  poetry  of  an  Etonian  is  generally 
reckoned  at  that  school  the  chief  test  of  his 
literary  talent.  That  of  Arthur  was  good  with- 
out being  excellent ;  he  never  wanted  depth  of 
thought,  or  truth  of  feeling ;  but  it  is  only  in  a 
few  rare  instances,  if  altogether  in  any,  that  an 
original  mind  has  been  known  to  utter  itself 
freely  and  vigorously,  without  sacrifice  of  pu- 
rity, in  a  language  the  capacities  of  which  are 
so  imperfectly  understood ;  and  in  his  produc- 
tions there  was  not  the  thorough  conformity  to 
an  ancient  model  which  is  required  for  perfect 
elegance  in  Latin  verse.  He  took  no  great 
pleasure  in  this  sort  of  composition ;  and  per- 
haps never  returned  to  it  of  his  own  accord. 

In  the  latter  part  of  his  residence  at  Eton, 
he  was  led  away  more  and  more  by  the  pre- 
dominant bias  of  his  mind  from  the  exclusive 
study  of  ancient  literature.  The  poets  of  Eng- 


14  PREFACE. 

land,  especially  the  older  dramatists,  came  with 
greater  attraction  over  his  spirit.  He  loved 
Fletcher  and  some  of  Fletcher's  contemporaries, 
for  their  energy  of  language  and  intenseness  of 
feeling;  but  it  was  in  Shakspeare  alone  that  he 
found  the  fulness  of  soul  which  seemed  to  slake 
the  thirst  of  his  own  rapidly  expanding  genius 
for  an  inexhaustible  fountain  of  thought  and 
emotion.  He  knew  Shakspeare  thoroughly  ; 
and  indeed  his  acquaintance  with  the  early  poe- 
try of  this  country  was  very  extensive.  Among 
the  modern  poets,  Byron  was  at  this  time  far 
above  the  rest  and  almost  exclusively  his  favor- 
ite ;  a  preference  which  in  later  years  he  trans- 
ferred altogether  to  Wordsworth  and  Shelley. 

He  became,  when  about  fifteen  years  old,  a 
member  of  the  debating  society  established 
among  the  elder  boys,  in  which  he  took  great 
interest ;  and  this  served  to  confirm  the  bias 
of  his  intellect  towards  the  moral  and  political 
philosophy  of  modern  times.  It  was  probably 
however  of  important  utility  in  giving  him  that 
command  of  his  own  language  which  he  pos- 
sessed, as  the  following  Essays  will  show,  in  a 
very  superior  degree,  and  in  exercising  those 


PREFACE.  15 

powers  of  argumentative  discussion  which  now 
displayed  themselves  as  eminently  characteris- 
tic of  his  mind.  It  was  a  necessary  conse- 
quence that  he  declined  still  more  from  the 
usual  parts  of  study,  and  abated  perhaps  some- 
what of  his  regard  for  the  writers  of  antiquity. 
It  must  not  be  understood,  nevertheless,  as  most 
of  those  who  read  these  pages  will  be  aware, 
that  he  ever  lost  his  sensibility  to  those  ever- 
living  effusions  of  genius  which  the  ancient 
languages  preserve.  He  loved  .^Eschylus  and 
Sophocles  (to  Euripides  he  hardly  did  justice), 
Lucretius  and  Virgil;  if  he  did  not  seem  so 
much  drawn  to  Homer  as  might  at  first  be  ex- 
pected, this  may  probably  be  accounted  for  by 
his  increasing  taste  for  philosophical  poetry. 

In  the  early  part  of  1827,  Arthur  took  a  part 
in  the  "  Eton  Miscellany,"  a  periodical  pub- 
lication, in  which  some  of  his  friends  in  the 
debating  society  were  concerned.  He  wrote 
in  this,  besides  a  few  papers  in  prose,  a  little 
poem  on  a  story  connected  with  the  Lake  of 
Killamey.  It  has  not  been  thought  by  the 
Editor  advisable,  upon  the  whole,  to  reprint 
these  lines  ;  though,  in  his  opinion,  they  bear 


1 6  PREFACE. 

very  striking  marks  of  superior  powers.  This 
was  almost  the  first  poetry  that  Arthur  had 
written,  except  the  childish  tragedies  above 
mentioned.  No  one  was  ever  less  inclined  to 
the  trick  of  versifying.  Poetry  with  him  was 
not  an  amusement,  but  the  natural  and  almost 
necessary  language  of  genuine  emotion  ;  and 
it  was  not  till  the  discipline  of  serious  reflec- 
tion, and  the  approach  of  manhood  gave  a  re- 
ality and  intenseness  to  such  emotions,  that  he 
learned  the  capacities  of  his  own  genius.  That 
he  was  a  poet  by  nature  these  Remains  will  suffi- 
ciently prove  ;  but  certainly  he  was  far  removed 
from  being  a  versifier  by  nature ;  nor  was  he 
probably  able  to  perform,  what  he  scarce  ever 
attempted,  to  write  easily  and  elegantly  on  an 
ordinary  subject.  The  lines  in  p.  125,  on  the 
story  of  Pygmalion,  are  so  far  an  exception, 
that  they  arose  out  of  a  momentary  amuse- 
ment of  society  ;  but  he  could  not  avoid, 
even  in  these,  his  own  grave  tone  of  poetry. 
Upon  leaving  Eton  in  the  summer  of  1827, 
he  accompanied  his  parents  to  the  Continent, 
and  passed  eight  months  in  Italy.  This  in- 
troduction to  new  scenes  of  nature  and  art, 
and  to  new  sources  of  intellectual  delight,  at 


PREFACE.  17 

the  very  period  of  transition  from  boyhood  to 
youth,  sealed  no  doubt  the  peculiar  character 
of  his  mind,  and  taught  him,  too  soon  for  his 
peace,  to  sound  those  depths  of  thought  and 
feeling,  from  which,  after  this  time,  all  that 
he  wrote  was  derived.  He  had,  when  he 
passed  the  Alps,  only  a  moderate  acquaintance 
with  the  Italian  language  ;  but  during  his  res- 
idence in  the  country,  he  came  to  speak  it 

with   perfect  fluency,  and  with  a  pure  Sienese 

• 

pronunciation.       In    his     study    he    was     much 

assisted  by  his  friend  and  instructor,  the  Ab- 
bate  Pifferi,  who  encouraged  him  to  his  first 
attempts  at  versification.  The  few  sonnets 
which  are  now  printed  were,  it  is  to  be  re- 
membered, written  by  a  foreigner,  hardly  seven- 
teen years  old,  and  after  a  very  short  stay  in 
Italy.  The  Editor  might  not,  probably,  have 
suffered  them  to  appear,  even  in  this  private 
manner,  upon  his  own  judgment.  But  he 
knew  that  the  greatest  living  writer  of  Italy, 
to  whom  they  were  shown  some  time  since 
at  Milan,  by  the  author's  excellent  friend,  Mr. 
Richard  Milnes,  had  expressed  himself  in  terms 
of  high  approbation  ;  and  he  is  able  to  confirm 
this  by  the  testimony  of  Mr.  Panizzi,  which  he 
2 


1 8  PREFACE. 

must    take    the    liberty   to   insert    in   his   own 
words  :  — 

"  MY  DEAR  SIR,  —  I  do  not  know  how 
to  express  myself  respecting  the  Italian  son- 
nets which  I  have  had  the  pleasure  to  read 
several  times,  lest  I  might  appear  blinded  by 
my  affection  for  the  memory  of  their  lamented 
author.  They  are  much  superior  not  only  to 
what  foreigners  have  written,  but  to  what  I 
thought  possible  for  them  to  write  in  Italian. 
I  have  formed  this  opinion  after  having  pe- 
rused the  poems  repeatedly  last  evening  as 
well  as  this  morning,  and  tried  (although  in 
vain)  to  forget  by  whom  they  were  written." 

The  growing  intimacy  of  Arthur  with  Ital- 
ian poetry,  led  him  naturally  to  that  of  Dante. 
No  poet  was  so  congenial  to  the  character  of 
his  own  reflective  mind  ;  in  none  other  could 
he  so  abundantly  find  that  disdain  of  flowery 
redundance,  that  perpetual  reference  of  the  sen- 
sible to  the  ideal,  that  aspiration  for  somewhat 
better  and  less  fleeting  than  earthly  things,  to 
which  his  inmost  soul  responded.  Like  all 
genuine  worshippers  of  the  great  Florentine 


PREFACE.  19 

Poet,  he  rated  the  "  Inferno "  below  the  two 
later  portions  of  the  "Divina  Commedia;"  there 
was  nothing  even  to  revolt  his  taste,  but  rath- 
er much  to  attract  it,  in  the  scholastic  theology 
and  mystic  visions  of  the  "  Paradiso."  Petrarch 
he  greatly  admired,  though  with  less  idolatry 
than  Dante  ;  and  the  sonnets  here  printed  will 
show  to  all  competent  judges  how  fully  he 
had  imbibed  the  spirit,  without  servile  centon- 
ism,  of  the  best  writers  in  that  style  of  com- 
position who  flourished  in  the  16th  century. 

But  Poetry  was  not  an  absorbing  passion  at 
this  time  in  his  mind.  His  eyes  were  fixed 
on  the  best  pictures  with  silent,  intense  delight. 
He  had  a  deep  and  just  perception  of  what  was 
beautiful  in  this  Art ;  at  least  in  its  higher 
schools ;  for  he  did  not  pay  much  regard  or 
perhaps  quite  do  justice,  to  the  masters  of  the 
17 tli  century.  To  technical  criticism  he  made 
no  sort  of  pretension  ;  painting  was  to  him  but 
the  visible  language  of  emotion  ;  and  where  it 
did  not  aim  at  exciting  it,  or  employed  inade- 
quate means,  his  admiration  would  be  with- 
held. Hence  he  highly  prized  the  ancient 
paintings,  both  Italian  and  German,  of  the  age 


20  PREFACE. 

which  preceded  the  full  development  of  Art. 
But  he  was  almost  as  enthusiastic  an  admirer 
of  the  Venetian,  as  of  the  Tuscan  and  Roman, 
Schools  ;  considering  these  Masters  as  reach- 
ing the  same  end  by  the  different  agencies  of 
form  and  color.  This  predilection  for  the  sen- 
sitive beauties  of  painting  is  somewhat  analo- 
gous to  his  fondness  for  harmony  of  verse,  on 
which  he  laid  more  stress  than  poets  so  thought- 
ful are  apt  to  do.  In  one  of  the  last  days  of  his 
life,  he  lingered  long  among  the  fine  Venetian 
pictures  of  the  Imperial  Gallery  at  Vienna. 

He  returned  to  England  in  June,  1828 ;  and 
in  the  following  October  went  down  to  reside 
at  Cambridge  ;  having  been  entered  on  the 
boards  of  Trinity  College  before  his  departure 
to  the  Continent.  He  was  the  pupil  of  the 
Rev.  Wm.  Whewell.  In  some  respects,  as 
soon  became  manifest,  he  was  not  formed  to  ob- 
tain great  academical  reputation.  An  acquaint- 
ance with  the  learned  languages,  considerable 
at  the  school  where  he  was  educated,  but  not 
improved,  to  say  the  least,  by  the  intermission 
of  a  year,  during  which  his  mind  had  been  so 
occupied  by  other  pursuits,  that  he  had  thought 


PREFA  CE.  2  f 

little  of  antiquity  even  in  Rome  itself,  though 
abundantly  sufficient  for  the  gratification  of 
taste  and  the  acquisition  of  knowledge,  was 
sure  to  prove  inadequate  to  the  searching  scru- 
tiny of  modern  examinations.  He  soon,  there- 
fore, saw  reason  to  renounce  all  competition 
of  this  kind;  nor  did  he  ever  so  much  as  at- 
tempt any  Greek  or  Latin  composition  during 
his  stay  at  Cambridge.  In  truth,  he  was  very 
indifferent  to  success  of  this  kind;  and  con- 
scious, as  he  must  have  been,  of  a  high  reputa- 
tion among  his  contemporaries,  he  could  not 
think  that  he  stood  in  need  of  any  University 
distinctions.  The  Editor  became,  by  degrees, 
almost  equally  indifferent  to  what  he  perceived 
to  be  so  uncongenial  to  Arthur's  mind.  It  was, 
however,  to  be  regretted,  that  he  never  paid 
the  least  attention  to  mathematical  studies. 
That  he  should  not  prosecute  them  with  the 
diligence  usual  at  Cambridge,  was  of  course  to 
be  expected  ;  yet  his  clearness  and  acumen  would 
certainly  have  enabled  him  to  master  the  prin- 
ciples of  geometrical  reasoning ;  nor,  in  fact, 
did  he  so  much  find  a  difficulty  in  apprehend- 
ing demonstrations,  as  a  want  of  interest,  and 
a  consequent  inability  to  retain  them  in  his 


22  PREFA  CE. 

memory.  A  little  more  practice  in  the  strict 
logic  of  geometry,  a  little  more  familiarity  with 
the  physical  laws  of  the  universe,  and  the  phe- 
nomena to  which  they  relate,  would  possibly 
have  repressed  the  tendency  to  vague  and  mys- 
tical speculation  which  he  was  too  fond  of  in- 
dulging. In  the  philosophy  of  the  human  mind, 
he  was  in  no  danger  of  the  materializing  theories 
of  some  ancient  and  modern  schools ;  but  in  shun- 
ning this  extreme,  he  might  sometimes  forget, 
that  in  the  honest  pursuit  of  truth,  we  can  shut 
our  eyes  to  no  real  phenomena,  and  that  the 
physiology  of  man  must  always  enter  into  any 
valid  scheme  of  his  psychology. 

The  comparative  inferiority  which  he  might 
show  in  the  usual  trials  of  knowledge  sprung 
in  a  great  measure  from  the  want  of  a  prompt 
and  accurate  memory.  It  was  the  faculty 
wherein  he  shone  the  least,  according  to  ordi- 
nary observation ;  though  his  very  extensive 
reach  of  literature,  and  his  rapidity  in  acquiring 
languages,  sufficed  to  prove  that  it  was  capable 
of  being  largely  exercised.  He  could  remem- 
ber anything,  as  a  friend  observed  to  the  Edi- 
tor, that  was  associated  with  an  idea.  But  he 


PREFACE.  23 

seemed,  at  least  after  he  reached  manhood,  to 
want  almost  wholly  the  power,  so  common  with 
inferior  understandings,  of  retaining  with  regu- 
larity and  exactness,  a  number  of  unimport- 
ant uninteresting  particulars.  It  would  have 
heen  nearly  impossible  to  make  him  recollect 
for  three  days,  the  date  of  the  battle  of  Mara- 
thon, or  the  names  in  order  of  the  Athenian 
months.  Nor  could  he  repeat  poetry,  much  as 
he  loved  it,  with  the  correctness  often  found 
in  young  men.  It  is  not  improbable  that  a 
more  steady  discipline  in  early  life  would  have 
strengthened  this  faculty,  or  that  he  might  have 
supplied  this  deficiency  by  some  technical  de- 
vices ;  but  where  the  higher  powers  of  intellect 
were  so  extraordinarily  manifested,  it  would 
have  been  preposterous  to  complain  of  what 
may  perhaps  have  been  a  necessary  consequence 
of  their  amplitude,  or  at  least  a  natural  result 
of  their  exercise. 

But  another  reason  may  be  given  for  his  de- 
ficiency in  those  unremitting  labors  which  the 
course  of  academical  education,  in  the  present 
times,  is  supposed  to  exact  from  those  who  as- 
pire to  its  distinctions.  In  the  first  year  of  his 


24  PREFACE. 

residence  at  Cambridge,  symptoms  of  disordered 
health,  especially  in  the  circulatory  system, 
began  to  show  themselves ;  and  it  is  by  no 
means  improbable,  that  these  were  indications 
of  a  tendency  to  derangement  of  the  vital  func- 
tions, which  became  ultimately  fatal.  A  too 
rapid  determination  of  blood  towards  the  brain, 
with  its  concomitant  uneasy  sensations,  ren- 
dered him  frequently  incapable  of  mental  fatigue. 
He  had  indeed  once  before,  at  Florence,  been 
affected  by  symptoms  not  unlike  these.  His  in- 
tensity of  reflection  and  feeling  also  brought  on 
occasionally  a  considerable  depression  of  spirits, 
which  had  been  painfully  observed  at  times  by 
those  who  watched  him  most  from  the  time  ot 
his  leaving  Eton,  and  even  before.  It  was  not 
till  after  several  months  that  he  regained  a  less 
morbid  condition  of  mind  and  body.  The  same 
irregularity  of  circulation  returned  again  in  the 
next  spring,  but  was  of  less  duration.  During 
the  third  year  of  his  Cambridge  life,  he  appeared 
in  much  better  health. 

In  this  year  (1831),  he  obtained  the  first 
College  Prize  for  an  English  declamation.  The 
subject  chosen  by  him  was  the  conduct  of  the 


PREFA  CE.  25 

Independent  party  during  the  Civil  War.  This 
exercise  was  greatly  admired  at  the  time,  but 
was  never  printed.  In  consequence  of  this  suc- 
cess, it  became  incumbent  on  him,  according 
to  the  custom  of  the  College,  to  deliver  an 
Oration  in  the  Chapel  immediately  before  the 
Christmas  vacation  of  the  same  year.  On  this 
occasion,  he  selected  a  subject  very  congenial 
to  his  own  turn  of  thought  and  favorite  study, 
—  the  Influence  of  Italian  upon  English  Liter- 
ature. He  had  previously  gained  another  prize 
for  an  English  essay  on  the  philosophical  writ- 
ings of  Cicero.  This  Essay  is,  perhaps,  too 
excursive  from  the  prescribed  subject ;  but  his 
mind  was  so  deeply  imbued  with  the  higher 
philosophy,  especially  that  of  Plato,  with  which 
he  was  very  conversant,  that  he  could  not  be 
expected  to  dwell  much  on  the  praises  of  Cicero 
in  that  respect. 

Though  the  bent  of  Arthur's  mind  by  no 
means  inclined  him  to  strict  research  into  facts, 
he  was  full  as  much  conversant  with  the  great 
features  of  ancient  and  modern  History,  as  from 
the  course  of  his  other  studies  and  the  habits 
of  his  life,  it  was  possible  to  expect.  He  reck- 


26  PREFA  CE. 

oned  them,  as  great  minds  always  do,  the 
ground-works  of  moral  and  political  philosophy, 
and  took  no  pains  to  acquire  any  knowledge 
of  this  sort,  from  which  a  principle  could  not 
be  derived  or  illustrated.  To  some  parts  of 
English  history,  and  to  that  of  the  French 

O  v    * 

Revolution,  he  had  paid  considerable  attention. 
He  had  not  read  nearly  so  much  of  the  Greek 
and  Latin  Historians,  as  of  the  Philosophers 
and  Poets.  In  the  history  of  literary,  and 
especially  of  philosophical  and  religious  opinions, 
he  was  deeply  versed,  as  much  so  as  it  is  pos- 
sible to  apply  that  term  at  his  age.  The  fol- 
lowing pages  exhibit  proofs  of  an  acquaintance, 
not  crude  or  superficial,  with  that  important 
branch  of  Literature. 

His  political  judgments  were  invariably 
prompted  by  his  strong  sense  of  right  and 
justice.  These,  in  so  young  a  person,  were 
naturally  rather  fluctuating,  and  subject  to  the 
correction  of  advancing  knowledge  and  experi- 
ence. Ardent  in  the  cause  of  those  he  deemed 
to  be  oppressed,  of  which,  in  one  instance,  he 
was  led  to  give  a  proof  with  more  of  energy 
and  enthusiasm  than  discretion,  he  was  deeply 


PREFACE.  27 

attached  to  the  ancient  institutions  of  his 
country. 

He  spoke  French  readily,  though  with  less 
elegance  than  Italian,  till  from  disuse  he  lost 

O  ' 

much  of  his  fluency  in  the  latter.  In  his  last 
fatal  tour  in  Germany,  he  was  rapidly  acquiring 
a  readiness  in  the  language  of  that  country. 
The  whole  range  of  French  literature  was 
almost  as  familiar  to  him  as  that  of  Eng- 
land. 

The  society  in  which  Arthur  lived  most  in- 
timately, at  Eton  and  at  the  University,  was 
formed  of  young  men,  eminent  for  natural 
ability  and  for  delight  in  what  he  sought  above 
all  things,  —  the  knowledge  of  truth  and  the 
perception  of  beauty.  They  who  loved  and 
admired  him  living,  and  who  now  revere  his 
sacred  memory,  as  of  one  to  whom,  in  the 
fondness  of  regret,  they  admit  of  no  rival, 
know  best  what  he  was  in  the  daily  commerce 
of  Life ;  and  his  eulogy  should,  on  every  ac- 
count, better  come  from  hearts,  which,  if  par- 
tial, have  been  rendered  so  by  the  experience 
of  friendship,  not  by  the  affection  of  nature. 


28  PREFACE. 

One  of  his  most  valued  friends  has  kindly  made 
a  communication  to  the  Editor,  which  he  can- 
not but  insert  in  this  place. 

"March  11,  1834. 

"  MY  DEAR  SIR,  —  I  have  delayed  writing 
longer  than  I  thought  to  have  done ;  but  dwell- 
ing upon  the  pleasant  hours  of  my  intercourse 
with  Arthur,  has  brought  with  it  a  sense  of 
changes  and  losses  which  has,  I  think,  taken 
away  all  my  spirits.  At  best,  I  cannot  pretend 
to  give  you  anything  like  an  adequate  account  of 
his  habits,  and  studies,  even  during  the  few  years 
of  our  friendship.  My  own  mind  lagged  so  far  be- 
hind his,  that  I  can  be  no  fit  judge  of  his  career ; 
besides,  the  studies  which  were  then  my  busi- 
ness, lay  in  a  different  direction  ;  and  we  were 
seldom  together,  except  in  the  ordinary  hours  of 
relaxation,  or  when  a  truant  disposition  stretched 
them  later  into  the  evening.  I  can  scarcely 
hope  to  describe  to  you  the  feelings  with  which 
I  regarded  him,  much  less  the  daily  beauty  of 
his  life  out  of  which  they  grew.  Numberless 
scenes,  indeed,  grave  and  gay,  come  back  upon 
me,  which  mark  him  to  me  as  the  most  accom- 
plished person  I  have  known  or  shall  know. 


PREFACE.  29 

But  the  displays  of  his  gifts  and  graces  were 
not  for  show  ;  they  sprang  naturally  out  of  the 
passing  occasion,  and  being  separated  from  it, 
would  lose  their  life  and  meaning.  And  per- 
haps, the  veiy  brightness  and  gayety  of  those 
hours,  would  contrast  too  harshly  with  the  sha- 
dow which  has  passed  Over  them.  Outwardly, 
I  do  not  know  that  there  was  anything  remark- 
able in  his  habits,  except  an  irregularity  with 
regard  to  times  and  places  of  study,  which  may 
seem  surprising  in  one  whose  progress  in  every 
direction  was  so  eminently  great  and  rapid.  He 
was  commonly  to  be  found  in  some  friend's 
room,  reading  or  conversing;  a  habit  which  he 
himself  felt  to  be  a  fault  and  a  loss;  and  he 
had  occasional  fits  of  reformation,  when  he 
adhered  to  hours  and  plans  of  reading,  with  a 
perseverance  which  left  no  doubt  of  his  power 
to  become  a  strict  economiser  of  time.  I  dare 
say  he  lost  something  by  this  irregularity ;  but 
less,  perhaps,  than  one  would  at  first  imagine. 
I  never  saw  him  idle.  He  might  seem  to  be 
lounging  or  only  amusing  himself;  but  his  mind, 
as  far  as  I  could  judge,  was  always  "active,  and 
active  for  good.  In  fact,  his  energy  and  quick- 
ness of  apprehension  did  not  stand  in  need  of 


30  PREFACE. 

outward  aids.  He  could  read  or  discuss  meta- 
physics as  he  lay  on  the  sofa  after  dinner,  sur- 
rounded by  a  noisy  party,  with  as  much  care 
and  acuteness  as  if  he  had  been  alone  ;  and  that 
on  such  subjects  he  could  never  have  contented 
himself  with  idle  or  slovenly  thinking,  the  writ- 
ings he  has  left  sufficiently  prove.  In  other 
respects,  his  habits  were  like  those  of  his  com- 
panions. He  was  fond  of  society;  the  society 
(at  least)  which  he  could  command  at  Cam- 
bridge. He  moved  chiefly  in  a  set  of  men  of 
literary  habits,  remarkable  for  free  and  friendly 
intercourse,  whose  characters,  talents,  and  opin- 
ions of  every  complexion,  were  brought  into 
continual  collision,  all  license  of  discussion  per- 
mitted, and  no  offence  taken.  And  he  was 
looked  up  to  by  all  as  the  life  and  grace  of 
the  party.  His  studies  again  (though  as  I 
said,  I  am  not  the  person  best  qualified  to  speak 
of  them),  were,  upon  the  whole,  desultory.  He 
pursued  all  with  vigor  and  effect ;  but  I  think 
none  (while  he  was  among  us,  at  least,)  sys- 
tematically. His  chief  pleasure  and  strength  lay 
certainly  in  metaphysical  analysis.  He  would 
read  any  metaphysical  book,  under  any  circum- 
stances, with  avidity;  and  I  never  knew  him 


PREFACE.  31 

decline  a  metaphysical  discussion.  He  would 
always  pursue  the  argument  eagerly  to  the  end, 
and  follow  his  antagonist  into  the  most  difficult 
places.  But  indeed,  nothing  in  the  shape  of 
literature  or  philosophy  came  amiss  to  him ; 
there  was  no  kind  of  intellectual  power  which 
did  not  seem  native  to  him ;  no  kind  of  discus- 
sion in  which  he  could  not  take  an  active  and 
brilliant  part.  If  he  had  not  as  yet  made  the 
very  most  of  his  powers  in  any  one  path,  that 
loss  would  have  been  amply  made  up  in  the 
end,  by  the  fuller  and  more  complete  develop- 
ment of  the  whole  mind.  In  the  end,  he  would 
have  found  out  his  vocation ;  his  other  powers 
would  have  subsided  into  their  natural  subordi- 
nation, and  his  range  of  thought  in  the  chosen 
path  would  have  been  proportionably  enlarged. 
As  it  is,  the  compositions  which  he  has  left 
(marvellous  as  they  are)  are  inadequate  evi- 
dences of  his  actual  power,  except  to  those  who 
had  watched  the  workings  of  his  mind,  and  seen 
that  his  mighty  spirit  (beautiful  and  powerful 
as  it  had  already  grown)  yet  bore  all  the  marks 
of  youth,  and  growth,  and  ripening  promise. 
His  powers  had  not  yet  arranged  themselves 
into  the  harmony  for  which  they  were  designed. 


32  PREFACE. 

He  sometimes  allowed  one  to  interfere  with  the 
due  exercise  of  another.  Thus,  his  genius  for 
metaphysical  analysis,  sometimes  interfered  with 
his  genius  for  poetry;  and  his  natural  skill  in 
the  dazzling  fence  of  rhetoric,  was  in  danger  of 
misleading  and  bewildering  him  in  his  higher 
vocation  of  philosopher.  Moreover,  he  was  not, 
it  appeared  to  me,  a  very  patient  thinker.  He 
read,  thought,  and  composed  with  great  rapid- 
ity ;  sometimes,  as  I  used  to  tell  him,  with  more 
haste  than  speed,  —  so  that  he  did  not  always 
do  full  justice  either  to  his  author,  or  himself, 
or  his  reader.  In  anticipating  his  author's  mean- 
ing too  hastily,  he  sometimes  misconceived.  His 
own  theories  he  was  constantly  changing  and 
modifying ;  and  he  generally  demanded  from  his 
reader,  or  hearer,  a  comprehension  as  quick  and 
subtle  as  his  own.  Perhaps,  I  am  speaking 
ignorantly ;  —  this  was  an  old  subject  of  dispute 
between  him  and  myself.  But,  if  I  am  right, 
it  seems  due  to  his  memory  that  it  should  be 
known  how  far  what  he  had  done  falls  short 
of  what  a  few  years  hence  he  would  have  done, 
—  how  far  liis  vast  and  various  powers  yet  were 
from  having  attained  their  full  stature  and  ma- 
ture proportions.  The  distinctions  which  the 


PREFACE.       •  33 

University  holds  out,  he  set  little  value  on ;  or 
there  is  no  doubt  he  might  have  distinguished 
himself  without  difficulty  in  either  line.  But  in 
mathematics,  for  which  he  was  in  some  respects 
singularly  qualified,  he  declined  the  drudgery 
of  the  apprenticeship ;  and,  as  a  scholar,  he  was 
content  to  feel  and  enjoy  (which  no  man  did 
with  a  finer  relish)  the  classical  writings,  with- 
out affecting  accurate  or  curious  learning.  For 
myself,  I  differed  from  him  on  many  points,  both 
of  politics,  literature,  and  philosophy ;  but  our 
disputes  never  for  a  moment  blinded  me  to  the 
excellence  of  his  gifts,  and  the  weight  of  his 
opinion,  and  the  light  which  his  conversation 
threw  on  every  subject,  where  we  differed  or 
where  we  agreed.  I  have  met  with  no  man 
his  superior  in  metaphysical  subtlety ;  no  man 
his  equal  as  a  philosophical  critic  on  works  of 
taste ;  no  man  whose  views  on  all  subjects  con- 
nected with  the  duties  and  dignities  of  humanity 
were  more  large,  more  generous,  and  enlight- 
ened. I  have  thus  frankly  given  you  my  opin- 
ion of  his  intellectual  powers ;  not  because  I  can 
attach  any  value  to  it,  nor,  I  think,  would  he 
have  done  so,  but  because  it  may  be  interesting 

to  you  to  know  the  estimation  he  was  held  in 
3 


34  PREFACE. 

by  his  companions,  and  the  effect  which  his 
society  produced  upon  their  minds.  Of  his 
character  as  a  friend  and  companion,  I  can 
speak  with  more  confidence.  While  we  were 
together,  it  left  me  nothing  to  desire ;  now  that 
we  are  parted,  there  are  but  two  things  which 
I  could  wish  had  been  otherwise,  —  that  I  had 
known  him  sooner,  and  that  I  had  been  a  more 
careful  steward  of  the  treasure  while  it  lasted. 
But  how  could  I  have  guessed  how  soon  it  was 
to  be  withdrawn  ?  For  the  rest,  I  look  back 
upon  those  days  with  unmixed  comfort ;  not  a 
word  ever  passed  between  us  that  I  need  now 
wish  unsaid.  Perhaps  I  ought  to  mention  that 
when  I  first  knew  him,  he  was  subject  to  occa- 
sional fits  of  mental  depression,  which  gradually 
grew  fewer  and  fainter,  and  had  at  length,  I 
thought,  disappeared,  or  merged  in  a  peaceful 
Christian  faith.  I  have  witnessed  the  same  in 
other  ardent  and  adventurous  minds,  and  have 
always  looked  upon  them  as  the  symptom,  in- 
deed, of  an  imperfect  moral  state,  but  one  to 
which  the  finest  spirits,  during  the  process  of 
their  purification,  are  most  subject.  I  seldom 
saw  him  under  these  influences,  and  never 
talked  with  him  on  the  subject.  With  me  he 


PREFACE.  35 

was  all  summer,  always  cheerful,  always  kind, 
pleasant  in  all  his  moods,  brilliant  in  all  com- 
panies,—  'a  pard-like  spirit,  beautiful  and  swift.' 
No  man  tempered  wit  and  wisdom  so  grace- 
fully ;  no  man  was  so  perfectly  made  to  be 
admired  for  his  excellent  accomplishments ;  to 
be  revered  for  his  true  heart  and  chivalrous 
principle ;  to  be  delighted  in  for  the  sweetness, 
and  gayety,  and  graciousness  of  his  life  and  con- 
versation ;  to  *be  loved  for  all  his  qualities. 
When  I  think  on  these  things,  and  look  back 
on  what  I  have  written,  I  am  ashamed  to  think 
how  little  I  have  been  able  to  say  of  such  a 
man,  that  is  calculated  to  give  even  a  faint 
notion  of  how  he  lived  and  what  he  was.  But, 
perhaps,  I  shah1  not  mend  the  matter  by  saying 
more.  But  do  not  think  that  the  feelings  which 
I  have  endeavored  to  express  are  exaggerated 
for  the  occasion.  From  the  time  that  I  became 
his  familiar  friend  till  the  day  of  his  death,  I 
never  regarded  him  with  any  other  feelings. 
Though  we  lived  on  the  freest  and  most  care- 
less terms,  using  daily  all  licence  of  raillery  and 
criticism,  he  never  caused  in  me  a  momentary 
feeling  of  displeasure,  or  annoyance,  or  even 
impatience  ;  and,  if  I  had  drawn  up  an  estimate 


36  PREFACE. 

of  his  character  in  our  day  of  careless  hope, 
when  I  little  dreamed  how  soon  his  name  might 
become  a  sacred  one,  I  should  have  spoken  of 
him  in  substance,  even  as  I  speak  of  him  now." 
The  Editor  is  desirous  to  subjoin  part  of  a 
letter  from  another  of  Arthur's  earliest  and  most 
intimate  friends,  which  displays  much  of  his 
tastes  in  literature  and  poetry,  as  the  last  does 
of  his  philosophical  pursuits  :  — 

• 

"  April  12,  1834. 

"I  HAVE  known  many  young  men  both  at 
Oxford  and  elsewhere,  of  whose  abilities  I  think 
highly,  but  I  never  met  with  one  whom  I  con- 
sidered worthy  of  being  put  into  competition 
with  Arthur  for  a  moment :  *  *  and  myself 

have  often  talked  together  on  this  point,  and 
we  have  invariably  agreed  thnt  it  was  of  him 
above  all  his  contemporaries  that  great  and  lofty 
expectations  were  to  be  formed.  I  am  the  more 
anxious  to  express  my  strong  conviction  of  his 
superiority,  because  it  seems  to  me  that  if  he  is 
judged  by  the  works  which  he  has  left  behind 
him,  the  estimate  formed  of  his  powers,  how- 
ever high,  will  yet  be  completely  inadequate. 
His  poetical  genius,  to  which  I  principally  al- 


PREFACE.  37 

hide,  as  being  the  one  among  his  many  emi- 
nent gifts  of  which  I  can  speak  with  the  greatest 
confidence,  was  of  too  stately  and  severe  a  kind 
to  be  so  soon  matured.  Intrinsically  excellent 
as  are  many  of  his  compositions,  displaying,  as 
everything  which  he  has  written  abundantly 
does,  the  signs  of  intellectual  power,  there  was 
yet  wanting  time  and  practice  and  meditation 
to  clear  away  the  occasional  obscurities  and  hard- 
nesses of  his  style,  before  it  wrould  have  repre- 
sented the  intensity  of  his  feelings  and  the 
loftiness  of  his  conceptions  with  adequate  har- 
mony and  truth.  Had  he  been  spared  'to  fill,' 
as  he  himself  beautifully  expresses  it, 

'  With  worthy  thought  and  deed 
The  measure  of  his  high  desire  ; ' 

had  he  chosen  —  which,  however,  from  the  tenor 
of  his  conversation  latterly,  I  do  not  believe  he 
would  have  done  —  to  concentrate  his  genius 
upon  poetry,  any  one  who  will  examine  can- 
didly what  he  has  left  may  easily  perceive  that 
the  very  highest  rank  among  the  Poets  of 
thought  and  philosophy  would  have  been  at 
his  command.  As  a  critic  there  was  no  one 
upon  whose  taste  and  judgment  I  had  so  great 
a  reliance.  I  never  was  sure  that  I  thoroughly 


38  PREFACE. 

understood  or  appreciated  any  poem  till  I  had 
discussed  it  with  him.  As  was  natural,  the 
philosophical  tendency  of  his  own  mind  led  him 
usually  to  prefer  the  poetry  of  thought  to  that 
of  action ;  and  in  accordance  with  this  prefer- 
ence, Wordsworth,  among  contemporary  writers, 
was,  upon  the  whole,  his  favorite;  the  splendor 
of  Shelley's  imagery,  and  the  various  melody 
of  his  versification,  captivated  him  for  a  time, 
but  I  think  that  Wordsworth,  whose  depth  and 
calmness  was  more  congenial  to  the  temper  of 
his  own  mind  than  the  turbulent  brilliancy  of 
Shelley,  gradually  regained  his  former  ascen- 
dency. He  also  admired  much  of  Keats,  espe- 
cially an  Ode  to  Autumn,  and  one  to  the  Night- 
ingale ;  and  entertained,  as  is,  of  course,  well 
known  to  you,  the  highest  opinion  of  his  friend 
Alfred  Tennyson  as  a  rising  poet.  But  though 
he  admired  these  whom  I  have  mentioned,  and 
many  others,  Dante  and  Shakspeare  were  cer- 
tainly the  two  whom  he  regarded  as  the  high- 
est and  noblest  of  their  class.  I  have  often 
heard  him  complain  that  the  former  was  not 
properly  appreciated  even  by  his  admirers,  who 
dwell  only  on  his  gloomy  power  and  sublimity, 
without  adverting  to  the  peculiar  sweetness  and 


PREFACE.  39 

tenderness  which  characterize,  as  he  thought,  so 
much  of  his  poetry.  Besides  Shakspeare,  some 
of  the  old  English  dramatists  were  among  his 
favorite  authors.  He  has  spoken  to  me  with 
enthusiasm  of  scenes  in  Webster  and  Heywood, 
and  he  delighted  in  Fletcher.  Massinger,  I 
think,  did  not  please  him  so  much ;  I  recollect 
his  being  surprised  at  my  preferring  that  dram- 
atist to  Fletcher.  He  used  to  dwell  particularly 
upon  the  grace  of  style  and  harmony  of  versi- 
fication for  which  the  latter  is  remarkable.  In- 
deed, he  was  at  all  times  peculiarly  sensible  of 
this  merit,  and  was  perhaps  somewhat  intolerant 
of  the  opposite  fault,  considering  metrical  harsh- 
ness to  indicate  a  defect  rather  in  the  soul  than 
the  ear  of  the  poet.  Of  Milton  he  always  spoke 
with  due  reverence  ;  but  I  do  not  believe  that -he 
recurred.to  him  with  so  much  delight  or  rated  him 
quite  so  high  as  his  favorite  Dante.  Among  the 
classical  writers  ^Eschylus  and  Sophocles,  partic- 
ularly the  former,  were  those  whom  he  used  to 
mention  most  frequently.  I  do  not  at  present  rec- 
ollect whether  we  ever  conversed  together  about 

O 

Homer ;  it  is  probable  that  we  may  have  done 
so,  but  I  cannot  recall  any  of  his  opinions  upon 
that  subject.  The  short  poems  and  fragments 


40  PREFACE. 

of  Sappho  interested  him  greatly ;  and  I  have 
heard  him  repeat  frequently  and  dwell  with  deep 
feeling  upon  those  beautiful  and  mournful  lines  of 
Bion,  which  begin  a?  al  ral  /^aAaxai.  I  do  not  think 
that  either  Euripides  or  Pindar  were  favorites 
in  general,  though  he  possessed  too  discriminat- 
ing a  taste,  and  too  sincere  an  appreciation  of 
what  is  beautiful  wherever  it  existed,  not  to 
acknowledge  and  feel  their  many  excellences. 
Of  the  Latin  poets  my  impression  is  that  he 
did  not  value  any  very  highly,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  Lucretius,  and  perhaps  Catullus.  Much 
of  Virgil  he  undoubtedly  admired,  but  I  do  not 
think  that  his  own  taste  would  have  led  him  to 
place  that  poet  in  the  prominent  rank  to  which 
he  has  been  elevated  by  general  opinion. 

•"  I  have  thus,  my  dear  Mr.  H ,  endea- 
vored to  comply  with  your  request ;  I  have 
endeavored  to  place  before  you,  as  shortly  and 
as  clearly  as  I  can,  what  I  believe  to  have  been 
the  opinions  entertained  by  the  dearest  and  most 
valued  of  all  my  early  friends  upon  that  branch 
of  literature  which  usually  formed  the  subject 
of  our  conversations.  I  am  ashamed  of  the 
slovenliness  and  insufficiency  of  the  sketch  which 
I  venture  to  send  to  you,  but  it  is  all  that  I 


PREFACE.  41 

can  furnish.  Happily,  however,  for  his  fame  — 
happily  for  your  own  feelings  of  proud  though 
melancholy  affection  —  his  reputation  is  not  left 
to  depend  upon  the  scanty  reminiscences  of  one 
or  two  youthful  friends :  the  memorials  which  he 
has  beqiieathed  to  us  of  his  mental  powers,  to- 
gether with  the  unanimous  consent  of  all  who 
had  an  opportunity  of  knowing  and  appreciating 
him  as  he  deserved,  are  amply  sufficient  to 
secure  to  him  that  to  which  he  is  entitled  — 
the  sincere  and  lasting  regret  of  all  good  men 
that  such  a  mind  should  have  been  removed 
from  among  us  at  a  time  when  the  light  of  his 
matured  genius,  and  the  excellence  of  his  moral 
nature,  might  have  exercised  so  great  and  so 
beneficial  an  influence  upon  the  happiness  of 
mankind." 

Arthur  left  Cambridge  on  taking  his  degree 
in  January,  1832.  He  resided  from  that  time 
with  the  Editor  in  London,  having  been  entered 
on  the  boards  of  the  Inner  Temple.  It  was 
.greatly  the  desire  of  the  Editor  that  he  should 
engage  himself  in  the  study  of  the  law ;  not 
merely  with  professional  views,  but  as  a  useful 
discipline  for  a  mind  too  much  occupied  with 


42  PREFACE. 

habits  of  thought,  which,  ennobling  and  impor- 
tant as  they  were,  could  not  but  separate  him 
from  the  every-day  business  of  life,  and  might, 
by  their  excess,  in  his  susceptible  temperament, 
be  productive  of  considerable  mischief.  He  had 
during  the  previous  long  vacation  read  with  the 
Editor  the  Institutes  of  Justinian,  and  the  two 
works  of  Heineccius  which  illustrate  them ;  and 
he  now  went  through  Blackstone's  Commen- 
taries, with  as  much  of  other  law  books,  as  in 
the  Editor's  judgment  was  required  for  a  simi- 
lar purpose.  It  was  satisfactory  at  that  time 
to  perceive  that,  far  from  showing  any  of  that 
distaste  to  legal  studies  which  might  have  been 
anticipated  from  some  parts  of  his  intellectual 
character,  he  entered  upon  them  not  only  with 
great  acuteness  but  considerable  interest.  In  the 
month  of  October,  1832,  he  began  to  see  the 
practical  application  of  legal  knowledge  in  the 
office  of  an  eminent  conveyancer,  Mr.  Walters, 
of  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields,  with  whom  he  con- 
tinued till  his  departure  from  England  in  the 
following  summer. 

It  was  not,  however,  to  be  expected,  or  even 
desired,  by  any  who  knew  how  to  value  him. 


PREFACE.  43 

that  he  should  at  once  abandon  those  habits  of 
study  which  had  fertilized  and  invigorated  his 
mind.  But  he  now,  from  some  change  or  other 
in  his  course  of  thinking,  ceased  m  a  great 
measure  to  write  poetrj,  and  expressed  to  more 
than  one  friend  an  intention  to  give  it  up.  The 
instances  after  his  leaving  Cambridge  were  few. 
The  dramatic  scene  between  Raifaelle  and 
Fiammetta,  which  occurs  in  p.  151,  was  written 
in  1832 ;  and  about  the  same  time  he  had  a  de- 
sign to  translate  the  "  Vita  Nuova  "  of  his  favor- 
ite Dante,  a  work  which  he  justly  prized  as  the 
development  of  that  immense  genius  in  a  kind 
of  autobiography  which  best  prepares  us  for  a 
real  insight  into  the  Divine  Comedy.  He  ren- 
dered accordingly  into  verse  most  of  the  sonnets 
which  the  "  Vita  Nuova"  contains  ;  but  the  Edi- 
tor does  not  believe  that  he  made  any  progress  in 
the  prose  translation.  These  sonnets  appearing 
rather  too  literal,  and  consequently  harsh,  it  has 
not  been  thought  worth  while  to  print. 

In  the  summer  of  1832  the  appearance  of 
Professor  Rossetti's  "  Disquisizioni  sullo  Spirito 
Antipapale,"  in  which  the  writings  of  Arthur's 
beloved  masters,  Dante  and  Petrarch,  as  well  as 


44  PREFACE. 

most  of  the  mediaeval  literature  of  Italy,  were 
treated  as  a  series  of  enigmas,  to  be  understood 
only  by  a  key  that  discloses  a  latent  carbonarism 
—  a  secret  conspiracy  against  the  religion  of 
their  age  —  excited  him  to  publish  his  own  re- 
marks in  reply.  It  seemed  to  him  the  worst 
of  poetical  heresies  to  desert  the  Absolute,  the 
Universal,  the  Eternal,  the  Beautiful  and  True, 
which  the  Platonic  spirit  of  his  literary  creed 
taught  him  to  seek  in  all  the  higher  works  of 
genius,  in  quest  of  some  temporary  historical 
allusion  which  could  be  of  no  interest  with 
posterity.  Nothing,  how:ever,  could  be  more 
alien  from  his  courteous  disposition  than  to 
abuse  the  license  of  controversy,  or  to  treat 
writh  intentional  disrespect  a  very  ingenious  per- 
son, who  had  been  led  on  too  far  in  pursuing 
a  course  of  interpretation  which,  within  certain 
much  narrower  limits,  it  is  impossible  for  any 
one  conversant  with  history  not  to  admit. 

A  very  few  other  anonymous  writings  occu- 
pied his  leisure  about  this  time.  Among  these 
were  slight  memoirs  of  Petrarch,  Voltaire,  and 
Burke,  for  the  "  Gallery  of  Portraits,"  published 
by  the  Society  for  the  Diffusion  of  Useful 


PREFACE.  45 

Knowledge.  His  time  was,  however,  princi- 
pally devoted,  when  not  engaged  at  his  office, 
to  metaphysical  researches  and  to  the  history 
of  philosophical  opinions. 

From  the  latter  part  of  his  residence  at  Cam- 
bridge, a  gradual  but  very  perceptible  improve- 
ment in  the  cheerfulness  of  his  spirits  gladdened 
his  family  and  his  friends ;  intervals  there  doubt- 
less were,  when  the  continual  seriousness  of  his 
habits  of  thought,  or  the  force  of  circumstances, 
threw  something  more  of  gravity  into  his  de- 
meanor ;  but,  in  general,  he  was  animated  and 
even  gay ;  renewing  or  preserving  his  inter- 
course with  some  of  those  he  had  most  valued 
at  Eton  and  Cambridge.  The  symptoms  of  de- 
ranged circulation  which  had  manifested  them- 
selves before,  ceased  to  appear,  or,  at  least,  so 
as  to  excite  his  own  attention ;  and  though  it 
struck  those  who  were  most  anxious  in  watch- 
ing him,  that  his  power  of  enduring  fatigue  was 
not  quite  so  great  as  from  his  frame  of  body 
and  apparent  robustness  might  have  been  an- 
ticipated, nothing  gave  the  least  indication  of 
danger,  either  to  their  eyes,  or  to  those  of  the 
medical  practitioners  who  were  in  the  habit  ot 


46  PREFACE. 

observing  him.  An  attack  of  intermitting  fever 
during  the  prevalent  influenza  of  the  spring  of 
1833,  may,  perhaps,  have  disposed  his  constitu- 
tion to  the  last  fatal  blow.  The  Editor  cannot 
dwell  on  anything  later. 

Arthur  accompanied  him  into  Germany  in  the 
beginning  of  August.  In  returning  to  Vienna 
from  Pesth,  a  wet  day  probably  gave  rise  to  an 
intermittent  fever,  with  very  slight  symptoms, 
and  apparently  subsiding,  when  a  sudden  rush 
of  blood  to  the  head  put  an  instantaneous  end 
to  his  life,  on  the  15th  of  September,  1833. 
The  mysteriousness  of  such  a  dreadful  termi- 
nation to  a  disorder  generally  of  so  little  im- 
portance, and,  in  this  instance,  of  the  slightest 
kind,  has  been  diminished  by  an  examination 
which  showed  a  weakness  of  the  cerebral  ves- 
sels, and  a  want  of  sufficient  energy  in  the 
heart.  Those  whose  eyes  must  long  be  dim 
with  fears,  and  whose  hopes  on  this  side  the 
tomb  are  broken  down  forever,  may  cling,  as 
well  as  they  can,  to  the  poor  consolation  of 
believing,  that  a  few  more  years  would,  in  the 
usual  chances  of  humanity,  have  severed  the 


PREFA  CE.  47 

frail   union    of    his    graceful    and    manly  form, 
with  the  pure  spirit  that  it  enshrined. 

The  remains  of  Arthur  were  brought  to 
England,  and  interred  on  the  3d  of  January, 
1834,  in  the  Chancel  of  Clevedon  Church,  in 
Somersetshire,  belonging  to  his  maternal  grand- 
father, Sir  Abraham  Elton ;  a  place  selected  by 
the  Editor,  not  only  from  the  connection  of 
kindred,  but  on  account  of  its  still  and  seques- 
tered situation,  on  a  lone  hill  that  overhangs 
the  Bristol  Channel. 

More  ought,  perhaps,  to  jbe  said;  but  it  is 
very  difficult  to  proceed.  Erom  the  earliest 
years  of  this  extraordinary  young  man,  his 
premature  abilities  were  not  more  conspicuous 
than  an  almost  faultless  disposition,  sustained 
by  a  more  calm  self-command  than  has  often 
been  witnessed  in  that  season  of  life.  The 
sweetness  of  temper  that  distinguished  his 
childhood,  became,  with  the  advance  of  man- 
hood, an  habitual  benevolence,  and  ultimately 
ripened  into  that  exalted  principle  of  love  to- 
wards God  and  man,  which  animated  and  al- 
most absorbed  his  soul  during  the  latter  period 
of  his  life,  and  to  which  most  of  the  follow- 


48  PREFACE. 

ing  compositions  bear  such  emphatic  testimony. 
He  seemed  to  tread  the  earth  as  a  spirit  from 
some  better  world  ;  and  in  bowing  to  the  mys- 
terious will  which  has  in  mercy  removed  him, 
perfected  by  so  short  a  trial,  and  passing  over 
the  bridge  which  separates  the  seen  from  the 
unseen  life  in  a  moment,  and,  as  we  believe, 
without  a  moment's  pang,  we  must  feel  not 
only  the  bereavement  of  those  to  whom  he  was 
dear,  but  the  loss  which  mankind  have  sustained 
by  the  withdrawing  of  such  a  light.  But  these 
sentiments  are  more  beautifully  expressed  in  a 
letter  which  the  Editor  has  received  from  one 
of  Arthur's  earliest  and  most  distinguished 
friends,  himself  just  entering  upon  a  career  of 
public  life,  which,  if  in  these  times  there  is  any 
field  open  for  high  principle  and  the  eloquence 
of  wisdom  and  virtue,  will  be  as  brilliant  as  it 
must,  on  every  condition,  be  honorable  :  — 


ytvo     ap 
7  a  8'  aAA*  o/toios. 

"  It  was  my  happiness  to  live  at 
Eton  in  habits  of  close  intimacy  with  him  ;  and 
the  sentiments  of  affection  which  that  intimacy 


PREFACE.  49 

produced,  were  of  a  kind  never  to  be  effaced. 
Painfully  mindful  as  I  am  of  the  privileges 
which  I  then  so  largely  enjoyed,  of  the  ele- 
vating effects  derived  from  intercourse  with  a 
spirit  such  as  his,  of  the  rapid  and  continued 
expansion  of  all  his  powers,  of  his  rare  send 
so  far  as  I  have  seen  unparalleled  endowments, 
and  of  his  deep  enthusiastic  affections  both 
religious  and  human,  I  have  taken  upon  me 
thus  to  render  my  feeble  testimony  to  a  mem- 
ory, which  will  ever  be  dear  to  my  heart. 
From  his  and  my  friend,  D.,  I  have  learned 
the  terrible  suddenness  of  his  removal,  and  see 
with  wonder  how  it  has  pleased  God,  that  in 
his  death  as  well  as  in  his  life  and  nature, 
he  should  be  marked  beyond  ordinary  men. 
When  much  time  has  elapsed,  and  when  most 
bereavements  would  be  forgotten,  he  will  still 
be  remembered,  and  his  place  I  fear  will  be 
felt  to  be  still  vacant,  singularly  as  his  mind 
was  calculated  by  its  native  tendencies  to  work 
powerfully  and  for  good  in  an  age  full  of  im- 
port to  the  nature  and  destinies  of  man." 

A  considerable  portion  of  the  poetry  contained 
in  this  volume  was  printed  in  the  year  1830,  and 
4 


50  PREFACE. 

was  intended  by  the  author  to  be  published  to- 
gether with  the  poems  of  his  intimate  friend, 
Mr.  Alfred  Tennyson.  They  were,  however, 
withheld  from  publication  at  the  request  of  the 
Editor.  The  poem  of  "Timbuctoo"  was  written 
for  the  University  Prize  in  1829,  which  it  did 
not  obtain.  Notwithstanding  its  too  great  ob- 
scurity, the  subject  itself  being  hardly  indicated, 
and  the  extreme  hyperbolical  importance  which 
the  author's  brilliant  fancy  has  attached  to  a 
nest  of  barbarians,  no  one  can  avoid  admiring 
the  grandeur  of  his  conceptions,  and  the  deep 
philosophy  upon  which  he  has  built  the  scheme 
of  his  poem.  This- is,  however,  by  no  means 
the  most  pleasing  of  his  compositions.  It  is  in 
the  profound  reflection,  the  melancholy  tender- 
ness, and  the  religious  sanctity  of  other  effu- 
sions, that  a  lasting  charm  will  be  found.  A 
commonplace  subject,  such  as  those  announced 
for  academical  prizes  generally  are,  was  inca- 
pable of  exciting  a  mind,  which,  beyond  almost 
every  other,  went  straight  to  the  furthest  depths 
that  the  human  intellect  can  fathom,  or  from 
which  human  feelings  can  be  drawn.  Many 
short  poems  of  equal  beauty  with  those  here 
printed  have  been  deemed  unfit  even  for  the 


PREFA  CE.  5 1 

limited  circulation  they  might  obtain  on  ac- 
count of  their  unveiling  more  of  emotion  than, 
consistently  with  what  is  due  to  him  and  to 
others,  could  be  exposed  to  view. 

1834. 


MEMOIR 


OF 


HENRY   FITZMAURICE   HALLAM. 


lUT  few  months  have  elapsed  since 
the  pages  of  "  In  Memoriam "  re- 
called to  the  minds  of  many,  and 
impressed  on  the  hearts  of  all  who 
perused  them,  the  melancholy  circumstances  at- 
tending the  sudden  and  early  death  of  Arthur 
Henry  Hallam,  the  eldest  son  of  Henry  Hal- 
lam,  Esq.  Not  many  weeks  ago  the  public 
journals  contained  a  short  paragraph  announc- 
ing the  decease,  under  circumstances  equally 
distressing,  and  in  some  points  remarkably 
similar,  of  Henry  Fitzmaurice,  Mr.  Hallam's 
younger  and  only  remaining  son.  No  one  of 
the  very  many  who  appreciate  the  sterling 
value  of  Mr.  Hallam's  literary  labors,  and  who 
feel  a  consequent  interest  in  the  character  of 


54  MEMOIR   OF 

those  who  would  have  sustained  the  eminence 
of  an  honorable  name  ;  no  one  who  was  affected 
by  the  striking  and  tragic  fatality  of  two  such 
successive  bereavements,  will  deem  an  apology 
needed  for  this  short  and  imperfect  Memoir. 

Henry  Fitzmaurice  Hallam,  the  younger  son 
of  Henry  Hallam,  Esq.,  was  born  on  the  31st 
of  August,  1824  ;  he  took  his  second  name 
from  his  godfather,  the  Marquis  of  Lands- 
do  wne.  His  health  was  somewhat  delicate 
from  infancy,  and  he  displayed  no  great  incli- 
nation for  the  ordinary  games  and  pleasures  of 
boyhood.  A  habit  of  reserve,  which  charac- 
terized him  at  all  periods  of  life,  but  which 
was  compensated  in  the  eyes  of  even  his  first 
companions  by  a  singular  sweetness  of  temper, 
was  produced  and  fostered  by  the  serious 
thoughtfulness  ensuing  upon  early  familiarity 
with  domestic  sorrow.  Even  in  its  immatu- 
rity, his  mind  exhibited  the  germs  of  rare 
qualities.  His  great  facility  in  learning,  his 
quick  appreciation  of  principles,  and  his  tena- 
cious memory,  were  remarked  and  encouraged 
by  his  earliest  instructors  ;  and  on  his  enter- 
ing Eton,  in  1836,  both  his  masters,  and  those 
of  his  schoolfellows  who  saw  mu^h  of  him, 


HENRY  FITZMAURICE  HALL  AM.        SS 

were  struck  with  the  general  forwardness  of 
his  intellect,  as  well  as  the  breadth  and  solid- 
ity with  which  the  foundations  of  his  educa- 
tion had  been  laid.  His  literary  taste  and 
information  were  uniformly  recognized  by  his 
contemporaries  as  greatly  in  advance  of  their 
own.  At  the  age  when  most  boys  are  read- 
ing Scott  or  Byron,  he  studied  Bacon  and  de- 
lighted in  Wordsworth  and  Dante.  Of  school 
honors  he  was  remarkably  unambitious  :  a  na- 
tive serenity  of  temperament,  and  a  love  of 
literature  for  its  own  sake,  which  he  very  early 
manifested,  may  have  made  him  indifferent  to 
them  ;  but  at  the  age  of  fifteen  he  entered 
the  examination  for  the  Newcastle  scholarship, 
and  obtained  the  medal  or  second  prize,  his 
performances  indicating  an  extraordinary  ripe- 
ness of  thought  in  the  judgment  of  the  ex- 
aminers, Lord  Lyttelton  and  Mr.  Gladstone. 
In  all  probability  he  would  have  won  the 
scholarship  in  the  following  year ;  but  from 
weak  health  and  other  causes  he  never  com- 
peted for  it  again. 

Apart  from  his  appearances  at  the  debating 
club,  where  his  speeches  were  already  noted 
for  ease  and  clearness,  he  was  not  conspicuous 


56  MEMOIR    OF 

in  what  may  be  called  the  public  life  of  Eton. 
Although  generally  respected,  it  was  only  by 
a  few  intimate  friends  that  he  was  appreciated 
or  understood.  The  impressions  of  his  boyish 
character  retained  by  these  more  familiar  com- 
panions bear  a  signal  resemblance  to  a  large 
part  of  those  which  the  associates  of  his  later 
life  received  from  intimacy  of  another  kind. 
"  He  was  gentle,"  writes  one  of  his  earliest 
and  closest  school-friends,  "  retiring,  thoughtful 
to  pensiveness,  affectionate,  without  envy  or 
jealousy,  almost  without  emulation,  impressible, 
but  not  wanting  in  moral  firmness.  No  one 
was  ever  more  formed  for  friendship.  In  all 
his  words  and  acts  he  was  simple,  straightfor- 
ward, true.  He  was  very  religious.  Religion 
had  a  real  effect  upon  his  character,  and  made 
him  tranquil  about  great  things,  though  he  was 
so  nervous  about  little  things." 

He  left  Eton  at  the  close  of  1841,  and  in  Oc- 
tober, 1842,  at  the  age  of  eighteen,  he  com- 
menced his  residence,  as  an  undergraduate,  at 
Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  on  the  "  side  "  of 
which  the  Rev.  J.  Heath  and  the  Rev.  W. 
H.  Thompson  were  then  the  tutors.  From  the 
sketch  of  his  boyhood  given  above,  it  will  be 


HENRY  FITZMAUR1CE   HALLAM.        S7 

divined  that  his  earnest  and  energetic  mind, 
which  had  always  treated  the  actual  school- 
work  of  Eton  as  slight  exercise,  while  gratify- 
ing its  intellectual  cravings  from  other  sources, 
would  find  but  little  inducement  to  spend  its 
whole  vigor  in  academical  studies  or  in  the 
pursuit  of  academical  distinctions.  It  might  al- 
most be  said,  that  he  was  inclined  to  under- 
value both  the  one  and  the  other :  certainly 
he  was  indisposed  to  make  any  extraordinary 
efforts  for  university  honors ;  and  he  was,  at 
that  time,  too  engrossingly  occupied  with  sub- 
jects of  more  congenial  interest,  to  appre- 
ciate altogether  the  worth  of  a  scholarlike 

O 

training.  With  all  his  remarkable  clearness  of 
perception,  rapid  classification  of  ideas,  and  ex- 
cellent memory,  it  was  not  till  a  later  period 
that  he  began  practically  to  value  delicate  ac- 
curacy of  detail  as  the  groundwork  of  accurate 
induction.  Neither  at  school  nor  at  college  did 
he  ever  spend  upon  his  classical  compositions,  • 
either  in  prose  or  verse,  the  time  or  labor  re- 
quisite to  make  them  severely  correct,  elegant, 
or  strong  :  in  metrical  refinements  especially 
he  fell  below  the  established  standard  of  Eton- 
ians ;  though,  at  the  same  time,  he  translated 


58  MEMOIR   OF 

into  English  most  difficult  historical  or  philo- 
sophical passages  with  great  terseness  and  felic- 
ity of  expression.  He  did  not  once  compete 
for  the  annual  university  prizes ;  but  in  all  the 
examinations  which  he  underwent  in  the  due 
course  of  his  academical  career,  his  natural 
ability  and  general  attainments  secured  him 
a  high  position.  In  the  Trinity  examinations 
of  June,  1843,  he  was  among  the  very  first 
of  his  year ;  at  Easter,  1844,  he  obtained  with 
ease  a  Trinity  scholarship  on  the  first  trial :  in 
his  third  year  he  gained  the  first  prize  for  an 
English  declamation,  having  selected  as  his  the- 
sis "  The  Influence  of  Religion  on  the  various 
forms  of  Art;"  and  the  oration  which,  as  prize- 
man, he  consequently  delivered  in  the  college 
hall,  though  occasionally  vague  and  mystical 
in  phraseology,  contained  abundant  proofs  both 
of  the  energy  and  the  extent  of  his  mental 
grasp.  He  took  his  degree  in  January,  1846 ; 
was  among  the  Senior  Optimes  in  the  Mathe- 

I  O  i 

matical  Tripos  ;  and  second  Chancellor's  Med- 
alist. He  distinguished  himself  (especially  for 
the  clearness  of  his  metaphysical  papers)  in 
the  fellowship  examination  of  his  college  in  the 
ensuing  October ;  and  would,  no  doubt,  have 


HENRY  FITZMAURICE  HALL  AM.        59 

succeeded,  without  difficulty,  in  a  second  at- 
tempt. For  various  reasons,  however,  he  never 
reentered  the  lists  —  to  the  regret,  not  only  of 
his  contemporaries,  but  of  many  among  the 
actual  fellows,  who  had  hoped  to  see  a  name 
of  so  much  promise  associated  with  their  own. 
He  finally  quitted  Cambridge  at  Christmas,  1846, 
to  reside  in  London,  and  commence  the  study 
of  the  Law. 

During  all  this  time  his  mind  never  lay  fal- 
low. In  the  first  year  of  his  college-life  he 
became  the  virtual  founder  of  the  "Historical" 
debating  club,  established  to  encourage  a  more 
philosophical  habit  in  style,  argument,  and 
choice  of  subjects,  than  was  in  vogue  in  the 
somewhat  promiscuous  theatre  of  the  Union. 
About  the  same  time  he  entered  a  smaller 
and  more  intimate  circle,  where  topics  of  the 
highest  and  deepest  speculation  were  discussed 
orally  and  in  writing.  To  this  society  he  read 
many  valuable  and  suggestive  essays,  and  al- 
ways took  a  principal  share  in  its  debates. 
Fluently  and  thoughtfully  as  he  wrote,  the 
natural  and  emphatic  exponent  of  his  ideas 
was  his  tongue  and  not  his  pen.  He  spoke 
quietly,  earnestly,  logically,  and  convincingly; 


60  MEMOIR   OF 

and  though  eager  at  the  time  to  pursue  an 
advantage  to  the  utmost,  to  confound  a  fallacy, 
or  expose  a  weak  argument,  he  was  so  pos- 
sessed with  a  spirit  of  candor  and  tenderness, 
as  often  afterwards  to  experience  most  serious 
uneasiness  at  the  thought  of  having  overstated 
the  strength  of  his  own  positions,  or  pressed 
unfairly  upon  those  of  his  adversary.  He  rare- 
ly attended  the  discussions  of  the  Union  ;  but 
in  May,  1845,  when  the  question  of  an  addi- 
tional grant  to  Maynooth  was  attracting  public 
notice,  besides  drawing  up  a  very  clearly  worded 
and  argued  petition  in  favor  of  the  measure,  he 
spoke  on  the  subject  with  so  much  strength, 
grace,  fervor,  and  eloquence,  as  entirely  to  en- 
chain the  attention  and  subjugate  the  sympa- 
thies of  an  originally  adverse  audience,  habitu- 
ated to  the  excitements  of  far  less  chastened 
oratory.  One  who  was  his  friend,  but  at  the 
same  time  a  very  constant  and  skilful  oppo- 
nent of  his  views  in  general  debate,  observes, 
in  describing  him,  that  "  he  was  the  neatest 
extempore  speaker  I  ever  heard ;  his  unpre- 
pared remarks  were  more  precisely  and  ele- 
gantly worded  than  most  men's  elaborately 
written  compositions.  He  had,  too,  a  foresight 


HENRY  FITZMAUR1CE  HALL  AM.        6 1 

and  power  of  anticipation  uncommon  in  such 
a  youth,  which  enabled  him  to  leave  no  sali- 
ent points  of  attack,  and  made  his  arguments 
very  difficult  to  answer.  He  was  always  most 
liberal  in  his  concessions  to  the  other  side,  and 
never  committed  the  fault  of  claiming  too  much 
or  proving  too  much.  His  was  not  a  passion- 
ate oratory  that  carried  his  hearers  away  in  a 
whirlwind,  but  a  winning  voice  that  stole  away 
their  hearts,  the  ars  celare  artem,  the  perfec- 
tion of  persuasiveness." 

What  he  might  have  proved  in  the  full  ma- 
turity of  life  and  intellect  may  best  be  con- 
jectured by  the  tastes  and  the  cast  of  thought 
which  he  developed  during  his  final  residence 
in  London.  The  professional  education  he  com- 
menced in  1846  exercised,  on  the  whole,  a  very 
beneficial  influence  upon  his  mind.  The  con- 
stant contact  with  the  facts  and  operations  of 
every-day  life,  into  which  he  was  forced  by 
his  preparation  for  the  bar,  concurring,  as  it 
did,  in  time,  with  his  permanent  restoration  to 

*  This  is  taken  from  an  eulogy  written  with  great  discrimina- 
tion, and  with  the  warmth  of  friendship,  which  has  appeared  in 
the  New  York  "  Literary  World,"  from  the  pen  of  Charles  Astor 
Bristed,  Esq.,  of  that  city,  the  contemporary  of  II.  F.  Hallam  a* 
Trinity  College. 


62  MEMOIR    OF 

the  sphere  of  his  family,  had  the  effect  of 
completely  correcting  an  undue  preference  for 
departments  of  study  remote  from  popular  in- 
terest which  he  had  occasionally  manifested  at 
Cambridge.  In  certain  favorite  fields  of  inves- 
tigation his  curiosity  had  been  apt  to  fasten 
most  tenaciously,  though  by  no  means  exclu- 
sively, on  the  obscure  recesses  which  were 
chiefly  remarkable  for  their  disconnection  from 
common  associations.  But,  from  the  time  of 
his  leaving  the  University,  he  devoted  his  lei- 
sure hours  almost  entirely  to  the  sciences 
which  embrace  the  mechanism  and  growth  of 
society.  The  study  of  English  history  he  be- 
gan upon  a  scale  so  vast,  that  the  friend  to 
whom  he  confided  his  design  found  it  difficult 
to  believe  him  serious.  But  within  a  few 
months  of  his  death  he  was  following  out  the 
plan  he  had  formed  with  a  patient  elaborate- 
ness and  attention  to  detail,  which  proved  his 
sincerity,  while  it  indicated  an  important  im- 
provement in  the  method  of  his  intellectual 
exercises.  About  the  same  period  he  applied 
himself  diligently  to  political  economy,  and  be- 
stowed much  time  latterly  on  the  difficult  prob- 


HENRY  FITZMAURICE  HALL  AM.        63 

lems  which  are  furnished  by  the  phenomena  of 
currency  and  exchange. 

It  may  here  be  added,  that  in  the  several 
tours  which  he  had  taken  with  his  family  on 
the  Continent,  as  weU  as  by  other  means,  he 
had  acquired  a  considerable  acquaintance  with 
modern  languages  and  literature.  He  spoke 
French  fluently  and  with  a  good  accent,  and 
could  converse  in  Italian  and  German. 

He  was  called  to  the  bar  in  Trinity  Term, 
1850,  and  became  a  member  of  the  Midland 
Circuit  in  the  summer.  Immediately  after- 
wards he  joined  his  family  in  a  tour  on  the  Con- 
tinent. They  had  spent  the  early  part  of  the 
autumn  at  Rome,  and  were  returning  north- 
wards when  he  was  attacked  by  a  sudden  and 
severe  illness,  affecting  the  vital  powers,  and 
accompanied  by  enfeebled  circulation  and  gen- 
eral prostration  of  strength.  He  was  able, 
with  difficulty,  to  reach  Siena,  where  he  sank 
rapidly  through  exhaustion,  and  expired  on  Fri- 
day, October  25.  It  is  to  be  hoped  that  he 
did  not  experience  any  great  or  active  suffer- 
ing. He  was  conscious  nearly  to  the  last,  and 
met  his  early  death  (of  which  his  presenti- 
ments, for  several  years,  had  been  frequent 


64  MEMOIR    OF 

and  very  singular)  with  calmness  and  forti- 
tude. There  is  reason  to  apprehend,  from 
medical  examination,  that  his  life  would  not 
have  been  of  very  long  duration,  even  had 
this  unhappy  illness  not  occurred.  But  for 
some  years  past  his  health  had  been  appar- 
ently much  improved  ;  and  secured  as  it 
seemed  to  be  by  his  unintermitted  temperance 
and  by  a  carefulness  in  regimen  which  his  early 
feebleness  of  constitution  had  rendered  habit- 
ual, those  to  whom  he  was  nearest  and  dear- 
est had,  in  great  measure,  ceased  to  regard 
him  with  anxiety.  His  remains  were  brought 
to  England,  and  he  was  interred,  on  Decem- 
ber 23d,  in  Clevedon  Church,  Somersetshire, 
by  the  side  of  his  brother,  his  sister,  and  his 
mother. 

His  temper  was  cheerful  and  even.  The 
reserve  which  has  been  before  ascribed  to  him, 
belonged  to  his  manner  rather  than  his  mind  : 

O 

it  was  bred  by  his  habits  and  the  circumstan- 
ces of  his  life,  and  betrayed  nothing  like  cold- 
ness or  selfishness.  Among  intimate  friends  his 
conversation  was  critical,  though  rarely  sarcas- 
tic ;  full  of  a  quiet  but  penetrating  and  most 
various  humor  ;  revealing  an  inclination  to- 


HENRY  FITZMAURICE  HALL  AM.        65 

wards  fanciful  and  even  paradoxical  tastes ; 
occasionally  scintillating  with  the  purest  wit. 
His  diction  was  fluent  and  ready,  abounding 
in  felicities  of  idiom  and  phrase.  In  poetry  his 
preferences  were  for  depth,  tenderness,  and 
solemnity,  rather  than  for  brilliancy  or  pas- 
sion ;  he  was,  however,  exceedingly  fond  of 
the  older  English  dramatists,  frequently  read- 
ing their  works  aloud,  and  delighting  his  hear- 
ers by  his  musical  voice  and  graceful  delivery. 
In  painting  he  was  attracted  by  all  beautiful 
forms,  but  derived  especial  pleasure  from  the 
expression,  through  Art,  of  religious  feeling. 
He  was  extremely  quick  to  appreciate  excel- 
lence of  all  kinds  ;  particularly  in  accomplish- 
ments in  which,  during  his  boyhood,  he  had 
felt  his  .own  deficiency,  —  as,  for  instance,  in 
athletic  exercises.  For  continuous  and  sus- 
tained thought  he  had  an  extraordinary  capac- 
ity, the  bias  of  his  mind  being  decidedly 
towards  analytical  processes,  —  a  characteristic 
which  was  illustrated  at  Cambridge  by  his  uni- 
form partiality  for  analysis,  and  comparative 
distaste  for  the  geometrical  method,  in  his 
mathematical  studies.  His  early  proneness  to 
dwell  upon  the  more  recondite  departments 
5 


6b  MEMOIR   OF 

of  each  science  and  branch  of  inquiry  has 
been  alluded  to  above.  It  is  not  to  be  infer- 
red that,  as  a  consequence  of  this  tendency, 
he  blinded  himself  at  any  period  of  his  life  to 
the  necessity  and  the  duty  of  practical  exer- 
tion. He  was  always  eager  to  act  as  well  as 
speculate  ;  and,  in  this  repect,  his  character 
preserved  an  unbroken  consistency  and  har- 
mony, from  the  epoch  when,  on  commencing 
his  residence  at  Cambridge,  he  voluntarily  be- 
came a  teacher  in  a  parish  Sunday-school  for 
the  sake  of  applying  his  theories  of  religious 
education,  to  the  time  when,  on  the  point  of 
setting  forth  on  his  last  fatal  journey,  he 
framed  a  plan  of  obtaining  access,  in  the  en- 
suing winter,  to  a  large  commercial  establish- 
ment, in  the  view  of  familiarizing  himself  with 
the  actual  course  and  minute  detail  of  mer- 
cantile transactions. 

He  was  full  of  kindness  to  his  dependents  ; 
very  charitable  ;  generous  to  profusion  where 
his  sympathies  were  strongly  engaged.  In  gen- 
eral society  he  was  markedly  courteous,  and, 
though  far  from  undemonstrative,  he  never 
gave  offence  :  one  has  seldom  been  found 
who,  with  such  strong  opinions,  ruffled  so  few 


HENRY  F1TZMAURICE   HALLAM.       67 

susceptibilities.  Insensibly  and  unconsciously, 
he  had  made  himself  a  large  number  of  friends 
and  admirers  in  the  last  few  years  of  his  life. 
The  painftd  impression  created  by  his  death  in 
the  circle  in  which  he  habitually  moved,  and 
even  beyond  it,  was  exceedingly  remarkable 
both  for  its  depth  and  its  extent.  For  those 
united  with  him  in  a  companionship  more  than 
ordinarily  close,  his  friendship  had  taken  such 
a  character  as  to  have  almost  become  a  neces- 
sity of  existence.  But  it  was  upon  his  family 
that  he  lavished  all  the  wealth  of  his  disposi- 
tion,— affection  without  stint,  gentleness  never 
once  at  fault,  considerateness  reaching  to  self- 
sacrifice. 

Such  is  a  faint  outline  of  Henry  Fitzmau- 
rice  Hallam.  It  is  idle  to  speculate  on  the 
position  which  he  might  hereafter  have  taken 
in  public  life  :  for  very  different  reasons,  it  is 
needless  to  speak  of  the  influence  which  his 
memory  will  continue  to  exert  upon  all  who 
knew  him  well.  The  friends  of  his  Eton  and 
Cambridge  career  will  number  their  acquaint- 
ance with  him  amono-  their  most  cherished 

O 

reminiscences.  Many  among  them  will  feel 
the  imperfections  of  this  hasty  memoir,  the 


68         HENRY  F1TZMAUR1CE  HALLAM. 

want  of  happy  and  characteristic  touches  in 
the  vain  attempt  to  recall  fully  the  features  of 
the  dead :  — 

"  Di  rii.  si  biasmi  il  debole  intelletto 
E1  1'  parlar  nostro,  che  non  ha  valore 
Di  ritrar  tutte  cib  che  dice  amore." 

H.  S.  M. 
F.  L. 


MEDITATIVE    FRAGMENTS 


IN   BLANK   VERSE. 


;Y  bosom   friend,  'tis   long    since    we    have 

looked 

Upon  each  other's  face ;  and  God  may  will 
It  shall  be  longer,  ere  we  meet  again. 
Awhile  it  seemed  most  strange  unto  my  heart 
That  I  should  mourn,  and  thou  not  nigh  to  cheer; 
That  I  should  shrink  'mid  perils,  and  thy  spirit 
Far  away,  far,  powerless  to  brave  them  with  me. 
Now  am  I  used  to  wear  a  lonesome  heart 
About  me  ;  now  the  agencies  of  ill 
Have  so  oppressed  my  inward,  absolute  self, 
That  feelings  shared,  and  fully  answered,  scarce 
Would    seem    my    own.      Like    a    bright,    singular 

dream 

Is  parted  from  me  that  strong  sense  of  love, 
Which,  as  one  indivisible  glory,  lay 


70  MEDITATIVE  FRAGMENTS. 

On  both  our  souls,  and  dwelt  in  us,  so  far 

As  we  did  dwell  in  it.     A  mighty  presence ! 

Almighty,  had  our  wills  but  been  confirmed 

In  consciousness  of  their  immortal  strength 

Given  by  that  inconceivable  will  eterne 

For  a  pure  birthright,  when  the  blank  of  things 

First  owned  a  motive  power  that  was  not  God. 

But  thou  —  thy  brow  has  ta'en  no  brand  of  grief, 

Thine  eyes  look  cheerful,  even  as  when  we  stood 

By  Arno,  talking  of  the  maid  we  loved. 

In  sooth  I  envy  thee ;  thou  seemest  pure : 

But  I  am  seared:  He  in  whom  lies  the  world 

Is  coiled  round  the  fibres  of  my  heart, 

And  with  his  serpentine,  thought-withering  gaze 

Doth  fascinate  the  sovran  rational  eye. 

There  is  another  world :  and  some  have  deemed 

It  is  a  world  of  music,  and  of  light, 

And  human  voices,  and  delightful  forms, 

Where  the  material  shall  no  more  be  cursed 

By  dominance  of  evil,  but  become 

A  beauteous  evolution  of  pure  spirit, 

Opposite,  but  not  warring,  rather  yielding 

New  grace,  and  evidence  of  liberty. 

Oh,  may  we  recognize  each  other  there, 

My  bosom  friend  !     May  we  cleave  to  each  other 

And  love  once  more  together!     Pray  for  me, 

That  such  may  be  the  glory  of  our  end. 


MEDITATIVE  FRAGMENTS,  71 


II. 

-A.   VALLEY  —  and  a  stream  of  purest  white 
Trailing  its  serpent  form  within  the  breast 
Of  that  embracing  dale  —  three  sinuous  hills 
Imminent  in  calm  beauty,  and  trees  thereon, 
Crest  above  crest,  uprising  to  the  noon, 
Which  dallies  with  their  topmost  tracery, 
Like  an  old  playmate,  whose  soft  welcomings 
Have  less  of  ardor,  because  more  of  custom. 
It  is  an  English  Scene  :  and  yet  methinks 
Did  not  yon  cottage  dim  with  azure  curls 
Of  vapor  the  bright  air,  and  that  neat  fence 
Gird  in  the  comfort  of  its  quiet  walls, 
Or  did  not  yon  gay  troop  of  carollers 
Press  on  the  passing  breeze  a  native  rhyme, 
I  might  have  deemed  me  in  a  foreign  land. 
For,  as  I  gaze,  old  visions  of  delight, 
That  died  with  th'  hour  their  parent,  are  reflected 
From  the  mysterious  mirror  of  the  mind, 
Mingling  their  forms  with  these,  which  I  behold. 
Nay,  the  old  feelings  in  their  several  states 
Come  up  before  me,  and  entwine  with  these 
Of  younger  birth  in  strangest  unity. 


72  MEDITATIVE  FRAGMENTS. 

And  yet   who   bade   them   forth?     Who    spake    to 

Time, 

That  he  should  strike  the  fetters  from  his  slaves? 
Or  hath  he  none  ?     Is  the  drear  prison-house 
To  which,  'twould  seem,  our  spiritual  acts 
Pass  one  by  one,  a  phantom  —  a  dim  mist 
Enveloping  our  sphere  of  agency  ? 
A  guess,  which  we  do  hold  for  certainty? 
I  do  but  mock  me  with  these  questionings. 
Dark,  dark,  yea,  "irrecoverably  dark," 
Is  the  soul's  eye :  yet  how  it  strives  and  battles 
Thorough  th'  impenetrable  gloom  to  fix 
That  master  light,  the  secret  truth  of  things, 
Which  is  the  body  of  the  infinite  God. 


MEDITATIVE  FRAGMENTS.  73 


m. 

JL/EEP  firmament,  which  art  a  voice  of  God, 
Speak  in  thy  mystic  accents,  speak  yet  once : 
For  thou  hast  spoken,  and  in  such  clear  tone, 
That  still  the  sweetness  murmurs  through  my  soul. 
Speak  once  again  :  with  ardent  orisons 
Oft  have  I  worshipped  thee,  and  still  I  bow, 
With  reverence,  and  a  feeling,  like  to  hope, 
Though  something  worn  in  th'  heart,  by  which  we 

pray. 

Oh,  since  I  last  beheld  thee  in  thy  pomp 
Right  o'er  the  Siren  city  of  the  south, 
Rude  grief  and  harsher  sin  have  dealt  on  me 
The  malice  of  their  terrible  impulses  ; 
And  in  a  withering  dream  my  soul  has  lived 
Far  from  the  love  that  lieth  on  thy  front, 
As  native  there  ;  far  from  the  poesies 
»\VThich  are  the  effluence  of  thy  holy  calm. 
Thou  too  art  changed ;  and  that  perennial  light 
Which  there  a  limitless  dominion  held, 
In  fitful  breaks  doth  shoot  along  yon  mist, 
And  trembles  at  its  own  dissimilar  pureness. 
Yet  is  thy  bondage  beautiful;  the  clouds 


74  MEDITATIVE  FRAGMENTS. 

Drink  beauty  from  the  spirit  of  thy  forms, 
Yea,  from  the  sacred  orbits  borrow  grace, 
To  modulate  their  wayward  phantasies. 
But  they  are  trifles :  in  thyself  alone, 
And  the  suffusion  of  thy  starry  light 
Firmly  abide  in  their  concordant  joy, 
Beauty,  and  music,  and  primeval  love : 
And  thence  may  man  learn  an  imperial  truth, 
That  duty  is  the  being  of  the  soul, 
And  in  that  form  alone  can  freedom  move. 
Such  is  your  mighty  language,  lights  of  heaven 
Oh,  thrill  me  with  its  plenitude  of  sound, 
Make  me  to  feel,  not  to  talk  of,  sovranty, 
And  harmonize  my  spirit  with  my  God! 


MEDITATIVE  FRAGMENTS.  75 


IV. 

JL  LAY  within  a  little  bowered  nook, 

With    all    green  leaves,  nothing   but   green   around 

me, 

.Ajid  through  their  delicate  comminglings  flashed 
The  broken  light  of  a  sunned  waterfall  — 
Ah,  water  of  such  freshness,  that  it  was 
A  marvel  and  an  envy !     There  I  lay, 
And  felt  the  joy  of  life  for  many  an  hour. 
But  when  the  revel  of  sensations 
Gave  place  to  meditation  and  discourse, 
I  waywardly  began  to  moralize 
That  little  theatre  with  its  watery  scene 
Into  quaint  semblances  of  higher  things. 
And  first  methought  that  twined  foliage 
Each  leaf  from  each  how  different,  yet  all  stamped 
With  common  hue  of  green,  and  similar  form, 
Pictured  in  little  the  great  human  world. 
Sure  we  are  leaves  of  one  harmonious  bower, 
Fed  by  a  sap,  that  never  will  be  scant, 
All-permeating,  all-producing  mind; 
And  in  our  several  parcellings  of  doom 
We  but  fulfil  the  beauty  of  the  whole. 


76  MEDITATIVE  FRAGMENTS. 

Oh  madness !  if  a  leaf  should  dare  complain 

Of  its  dark  verdure,  and  aspire  to  be 

The  gayer,  brighter  thing  that  wantons  near. 

Then  as  I  looked 

On  the  pure  presence  of  that  tumbling  stream, 

Pure  amid  thwarting  stones  and  staining  earth, 

Oh  Heaven !  methought  how  hard  it  were  to  find 

A  human  bosom  of  such  stubborn  truth, 

Yet  tempered  so  with  yielding  courtesy. 

Then  something  rose  within  my  heart  to  say  — 

"  Maidenly  virtue  is  the  beauteous  face 

Which  this  clear  glass  gives  out  so  prettily : 

Maidenly  virtue  born  of  privacy, 

Lapt  in  a  still  conclusion  and  reserve ; 

Yet,  when  the  envious  winter-time  is  come 

That  kills  the  flaunting  blossoms  all  arow, 

If  that  perforce  her  steps  must  be  abroad 

Keeps,  b'ke  that  stream,  a  queenly  havior, 

Free  from  all  taint  of  that  she  treads  upon ; 

And  like  those  hurrying  atoms  in  their  fall, 

A  maiden's  thoughts  may  dare  the  eye  of  day 

To  look  upon  their  sweet  sincerity." 

With  that  I  struck  into  a  different  strain:  — 

"  O  ye  wild  atomies,  whose  headlong  life 

Is  but  an  impulse  and  coaction, 

Whose  course  hath  no  beginning,  no,  nor  end ; 

Are  ye  not  weary  of  your  mazed  whirls, 


MEDITATIVE  FRAGMENTS.  77 

Your  tortuous  deviations,  and  the  strife 

Of  your  opposed  bubblings  ?     Are  there  not 

In  you  as  in  all  creatures,  quiet  moods, 

Deep  longings  for  a  slumber  and  a  calm? 

I  never  saw  a  bird  was  on  the  wing 

But  with  a  homeward  joy  he  seem'd  to  fly 

As  knowing  all  his  toil's  o'er-paid  reward 

Was  with  his  chirpers  in  their  little  nest. 

Pines  have  I  seen  on  Jura's  misty  height 

Swinging  amid  the  whirl-blasts  of  the  North, 

And  shaking  their  old  heads  with  laugh  prolonged, 

As  if  they  joyed  to  share  the  mighty  life 

Of  elements  —  the  freedom,  and  the  stir. 

But  when  the  gale  was  past,  and  the  rent  air 

Returned,  and  the  piled  clouds  rolled  out  of  view, 

How  still  th'  interminable  forest  then! 

Soundless,  but  for  the  myriad  forest-flies, 

That  hum  a  busy  little  life  away 

I'  th'  amplitude  of  those  unstartled  glades. 

Why  what  a  rest  was  there  !     But  ye,  oh  ye  ! 

Poor  aliens  from  the  fixed  vicissitudes, 

That  alternate  throughout  created  things, 

Mocked  with  incessantness  of  motion, 

Where  shall  ye  find  or  changement  or  repose  ?  " 

So  spake  I  in  the  fondness  of  my  mood. 

But  thereat  Fancy  sounded  me  a  voice 

Borne  upward  from  that  sparkling  company : 


78  MEDITATIVE  FRAGMENTS. 

"  Repinement  dwells  not  with  the  duteous  free. 

"We  do  the  Eternal  Will ;  and  in  that  doing, 

Subject  to  no  seducement  or  oppose, 

We  owe  a  privilege,  that  reasoning  man 

Hath  no  true  touch  of."     At  that  reproof  the  tears 

Flushed  to  mine  eyes ;  and  I  arose,  and  walked 

With  a  more  earnest  and  reverent  heart 

Forth  to  the  world,  which  God  had  made  so  fair, 

Mired  now  with  trails  of  error  and  of  sin. 


MEDITATIVE  FRAGMENTS.  79 


v. 

WRITTEN  IN  VIEW  OF  BEN  LOMOND. 

MOUNTAIN  austere,  and  full  of  kinglihood ! 

Forgive  me  if  a  child  of  later  earth, 

I  come  to  bid  thee  hail.     My  days  are  brief 

And  like  the  mould  that  crumbles  on  thy  verge 

A  minute's  blast  may  shake  me  into  dust; 

But  thou  art  of  the  things  that  never  faiL 

Before  the  mystic  garden,  and  the  fruit 

Sung  by  that  Shepherd-Ruler  vision-blest, 

Thou  wert ;  and  from  thy  speculative  height 

Beheld'st  the  forms  of  other  living  souls. 

Oh,  if  thy  dread  original  were  not  sunk 

I'  th'  mystery  of  universal  birth, 

What  joy  to  know  thy  tale  of  mammoths  huge, 

And  formings  rare  of  the  material  prime, 

And  terrible  craters,  cold  a  cycle  since ! 

To  know  if  then,  as  now,  thy  base  was  laved 

With  moss-dark  waters  of  a  placid  lake  ; 

If  then,  as  now, 

In  the  clear  sunlight  of  thy  verdant  sides 

Spare  islets  of  uncertain  shadow  lay. 


8o  MEDITATIVE  FRAGMENTS. 


VI. 

IT  is  a  thing  of  trial  to  the  heart, 

Of  trial  and  of  painful  wonderment, 

To  walk  within  a  dear  companion's  voice 

And  hear  him  speak  light  words  of  one  we  hold 

In  the  same  compass  of  undoubting  love. 

"  How  is  it  that  his  presence  being  one, 

His  language  one,  his  customs  uniform, 

He  bears  not  the  like  honor  in  the  thought 

Of  this  my  friend,  which  he  hath  borne  in  mine. 

It  minds  me  of  that  famous  Arab  tale 

(First  to  expand  the  struggling  notions 

Of  my  child  brain)  in  which  the  bold  poor  man 

"Was  checked  for  lack  of  '  Open  sesame.' 

Seems  it  my  comrade  standeth  at  the  door 

Of  that  rich  treasure-house,  my  lover's  heart, 

Trying  with  keys  untrue  the  rebel  wards, 

And  all  for  lack  of  one  unsounded  word 

To  open  out  the  sympathetic  mind." 

Thus  might  a  thoughtful  man  be  eloquent, 

To  whom  that  cross  had  chanced :  yet  not  such 

The  color,  though  the  nature  was  the  same, 

Of  the  plain  fact  which  won  me  to  this  muse. 


MEDITATIVE  FRAGMENTS.  8  I 

One  mom,  while  in   *    *    *    I  sojourned, 
That  winsome  Lady  sitting  by  my  side, 
Whom  still  these  eyes  in  every  place  desire, 
We  looked  in  quiet  unison  of  joy 
On  a  bright  summer  scene.     Aspiring  trees 
Circled  us,  each  in  several  dignity, 
Yet  taking,  like  a  band  of  senators, 
Most  grandeur  from  their  congregated  calm. 
Afar  between  two  leafy  willow  stems 
Visibly  flowed  the   sunlit   Clyde :  more  near 
An  infant  sister  frolicked  on  the  lawn, 
And  in  sweet  accents  of  a  far-off  land, 
Native  to  th'  utterer,  called  upon  her  nurse 
To  help  her  steps  unto  us  :  nor  delayed 
Those  tones  to  rouse  within  our  inmost  hearts 
Clear  images  of  a  delightful  past. 
Capri's  blue  distance,  Procida,  and  the  light 
Pillowed  on  Baiae's  wave :  nor  less  the  range 
Of  proud  Albano,  backed  by  Puglian  snows, 
And  the  green  tract  beside  the  Lateran 
Rose  in  me,  and  a  mist  came  o'er  my  eyes  : 
But  I  spoke  freely  of  these  things  to  her,  • 
And  for  awhile  we  walked  'mid  phantom  shapes 
In  a  fair  universe  of  other  days. 
That  converse  passed  away,  and  careless  talk, 
As  is  its  use,  brought  divers  fancies  up, 
Like  bubbles  dancing  down  their  rivulet 
6 


82  MEDITATIVE  FRAGMENTS. 

A  moment,  theri  dilating  into  froth. 
At  last,  a  chance-direction  being  given, 
I  spake  of  Wordsworth,  of  that  lofty  mind, 
Enthronized  in  a  little  monarchy 
Of  hills  and  waters,  where  no  one  thing  is 
Lifeless,  or  pulsing  fresh  with  mountain  strength, 
But  pays  a  tribute  to  his  shaping  spirit ! 
Thereat  the  Lady  laughed  —  a  gentle  laugh  ; 
For  all  her  moods  were  gentle  :  passing  sweet 
Are  the  rebukes   of  woman's  gentleness ! 
But  still  she  laughed,  and  asked  me  how  long  since 
I  grew  a  dreamer,  heretofore  not  wont 
To  conjure  nothings  to  a  mighty  size, 
Or  see  in  Nature  more  than  Nature  owns. 
Then  taking  up  the  volume,  where  it  lay 
Upon  her  table,  of  those  hallowed  songs, 
I  answered  not  but  by  their  utterance. 
And  first  the  tales  of  quiet  tenderness 
(Sweet  votive  offerings  of  a  loving  life) 
In  which  the  feeling  dignifies  the  fact, 
I  read  ;  then  gradual  rising  as  that  sprite 
Indian,  by  recent  fabler  sung  so  well,* 
1  Clpmb  the  slow  column  up  to  Seva's  throne, 
I  opened  to  her  view  his  lofty  thought 
More  and  more  struggling  with  its  walls  of  clay, 
And  on  all  objects  of  our  double  nature, 

*  See  Southey's  "  Kehama." 


MEDITATIVE  FRAGMENTS.  83 

Inward,  and  outward,  shedding  holier  light, 

Till  disenthralled  at  length  it  soared  amain 

In  the  pure  regions  of  the  eternal  same, 

Where  nothing  meets  the  eye  but  only  God. 

Then  spoke  I  of  that  intimate  belief 

In  which  he  nursed  his  spirit  aquiline, 

How  all  the  moving  phantasies  of  things, 

And  all  our  visual  notions,  shadow-like, 

Half  hide,  half  show,  that  All-sustaining  One, 

Whose  Bibles  are  the  leaves  of  lowly  flowers, 

And  the  calm  strength  of  mountains  ;  rippling  lakes 

And  the  irregular  howl  of  stormful  seas ; 

Soft  slumbering  lights  of  even  and  of  morn, 

And  the  unfolding  of  the   starlit   gloom ; 

But  whose  chief  presence,  whose  imparted  self, 

Is  in  the  silent  virtues  of  the  heart, 

The  deep,  the  human  heart,  which  with  the  high 

Still  glorifies  the  humble,  and  delights 

To  seek  in  every  show  a  soul  of  good. 

Pausing  from  that  high  strain,  I  looked  to  her 

For  sympathy,  for  my  full  heart  was  up, 

And  I  would  fain  have  felt  another's  breast 

Mix  its  quick  heavings  with  my  own :  indeed 

The  lady  laughed  not  now,  nor  breathed  reproach, 

Yet  there  was  dullness  in  her  calm  approve, 

Which  with  my  kindled  temper  suited  not. 

Oh  !  there  is  union,  and  a  tie  of  blood 


84  MEDITATIVE  FRAGMENTS. 

With  those  who  speak  unto  the  general  mind, 

Poets  and  sages !     Their  high  privilege 

Bids  them  eschew  succession's  changefulness, 

And,  like  eternals,  equal  influence 

Shed  on  all  times  and  places.     I  would  be 

A  poet,  were't  but  for  tliis  linked  delight, 

This  consciousness  of  noble  brotherhood, 

Whose  joy  no  heaps  of  earth  can  buiy  up, 

No  worldly  venture  'minish  or  destroy, 

For  it  is  higher,  than  to  be  personal ! 

Some  minutes  passed  me  by  in  dubious  maze 

Of  meditation  lingering  painfully, 

But  then  a  calm  grew  on  me,  and  clear  faith 

(So  clear  that  I  did  marvel  how  before 

I  came  not  to  the  level  of  that  truth) 

That  different  halts,  in  Life's  sad  pilgrimage, 

With  different  minstrels  charm  the  journeying  soul. 

Not  in  our  early  love's  idolatry, 

Not  in  our  first  ambition's  flush  of  hope, 

Not  while  the  pulse  beats  high  within  our  veins, 

Fix  we  our  soul  in  beautiful  regrets, 

Or  strive  to  build  the  philosophic  mind. 

But  when  our  feelings  coil  upon  themselves 

At  time's  rude  pressure ;  when  the  heart  grows  dry, 

And  burning  with  immedicable  thirst 

As  though  a  plague-spot  seared  it,  while  the  brain 

Fevers  with  cogitations  void  of  love, 


MEDITATIVE  FRAGMENTS.  85 

When  this  change  comes,  as  come  it  will  to  most, 

It  is  a  blessed  God-given  aid  to  list 

Some  master's  voice,  speaking  from  out  those  depths 

Of  reason  that  do  border  on  the  source 

Of  pure  emotion  and  of  generous  act. 

It  may  be  that  this  motive  swayed  in  me, 

And  thinking  so  that  day  I  prayed  that  she, 

Whose  face,  like  an  unruffled  mountain  tarn, 

Smiled  on  me  till  its  innocent  joy  grew  mine, 

Might  ne'er  experience  any  change  of  mood 

So  dearly  bought  by  griefs  habitual ; 

Much  rather,  if  no  softer  path  be  found 

To  bring  our  steps  together  happily, 

Serve  the  bright  Muses  at  a  separate  shrine. 

1820. 


86  TLMBUCTOO. 


TIMBUCTOO. 


Be  Yarrow  stream  unseen,  unknown; 

It  must  or  we  shall  rue  it; 
We  have  a  vision  of  our  own : 

Ah !  why  should  we  undo  it.  —  WORDSWORTH. 

1  HERE  was  a  land,  which,  far  from  human  sight, 

Old   Ocean   compassed  with  his  numerous  waves, 
In  the  lone  "West.     Tenacious  of  her  right, 

Imagination  decked  those  unknown  caves, 
And  vacant  forests,  and  clear  peaks  of  ice 

With  a  transcendent  beauty  ;  that  which  saves 
From  the  world's  blight  our  primal  sympathies, 

Still  in  man's  heart,  as  some  familiar  shrine, 
Feeding  the  tremulous  lamp  of  love  that  never  dies. 

Poets  have  loved  that  land,  and  dared  to  twine 
Round  its  existence  memories  of  old  time, 

When  the  good  reigned;  and  none   in    grief  did 

pine. 
Sages,  and  all  who  owned  the  might  sublime 

To  impress  their  thought  upon  the  face  of  things, 
And  teach  a  nation's  spirit  how  to  climb, 


T1MBUCTOO.  «/ 

Spake  of  long-lost  Atlantis,*  when  the  springs 
Of  clear  Ilissus  or  the  Tusculan  bower 

Were    welcoming   the    pure    rest   which   "Wisdom 

brings 
To  her  elect,  the  marvellous  calm  of  power. 

Oft,  too,  some  maiden,  garlanding  her  brow 
With  Baian  roses,  at  eve's  mystic  hour, 

Has  gazed  on  the  sun's  path,  as  he  sank  low, 
I'  th'  awful  main,  behind  Inarime ;  f 

And  with  clasped  hands,  and  gleaming  eye,  "  Shalt 

thou, 
First-born  of  light,  endure  in  the  flat  sea 

Such  intermission  of  thy  life  intense  ? 
Thou  lordly  one,  is  there  no  home  for  thee  ? " 

A  Youth  took  up  the  voice  :  "  Thou  speedest  hence, 
Beautiful  orb,  but  not  to  death  or  sleep, 

That  feel  we  ;  worlds  invisible  to  sense, 
Whose  course  is  pure,  where  eyes  forget  to  weep, 

And  th'  earthly  sisterhood  of  sorrow  and  love 

*  The  legend  of  the  lost  continent  Atlantis  is  so  well  known, 
and  its  derivation  from  an  early  knowledge  of  America  seems  so 
natural  and  probable,  that,  had  not  this  Poem  been  pretty  gener- 
ally censured  for  its  obscurity,  I  should  have  thought  a  note  on 
the  subject  superfluous.  In  the  beautiful  opening  of  the  "  Tim- 
seus,''  Plato  has  alluded  to  a  form  of  this  legend  highly  creditable 
to  the  Athenians,  which  will  serve  to  show  the  notions  entertained 
of  the  extent  and  relative  importance  of  Atlantis. 

t  Inarime,  now  the  Island  of  Ischia. 


88  T1MBUCTOO. 

Some  god  putteth  asunder,  these  shall  keep 

Thy  state  imperial  now:  there  shalt  thou  move 
Fresh  hearts  with  warmth  and  joyance  to  rebound, 

By  many  a  musical  stream  and  solemn  grove." 
Years  lapsed  in  silence,  and  that  holy  ground 

Was  still  an  Eden,  shut  from  sight ;  and  few 
Brave  souls  in  its  idea  solace  found. 

In  the  last  days  a  man  arose,  who  knew* 
That  ancient  legend  from  his  infancy. 

Yea,  visions  on  that  child's  emmarvailed  view 
Had  flashed  intuitive  science  ;  and  his  glee 

Was  lofty  as  his  pensiveness,  for  both 
Wore  the  bright  colors  of  the  thing  to  be  ! 

But  when  his  prime  of  life  was  come,  the  wrath 

*  These  lines  were  suggested  to  me  by  the  following  passage  in 
Mr.  Coleridge's  "  Friend."  "  It  cannot  be  deemed  alien  from  the 
purposes  of  this  disquisition,  if  we  are  anxious  to  attract  the  at- 
tention of  our  readers  to  the  importance  of  this  speculative  medita- 
tion, even  for  the  worldly  interests  of  mankind ;  and  to  that  con- 
currence of  nature  and  historic  event  with  the  great  revolutionary 
movements  of  individual  genius,  of  which  so  many  instances 
occur  in  the  study  of  history,  how  nature  (why  should  we  hesitate 
in  saying,  that  which  in  nature  itself  is  more  than  nature?)  seems 
to  come  forward  in  order  to  meet,  to  aid,  and  to  reward  every  idea 
excited  by  a  contemplation  of  her  methods  in  the  spirit  of  a 
filial  care,  and  with  the  humility  of  love."  —  "  Friend,"  vol.  iii. 
p.  190. 

Mr.  Coleridge  proceeds  to  illustrate  this  by  the  very  example  of 
Columbus,  and  quotes  some  highly  beautiful  and  applicable  verses 
of  Chiabrera. 


T1MBUCTOO.  89 

Of  the  cold  world  fell  on  him  ;  it  did  thrill 

His  inmost  self,  but  never  quenched  his  faith. 
Still  to  that  faith  he  added  search,  and  still, 

As  fevering  with  fond  love  of  th'  unknown  shore, 
From  learning's  fount  he  strove  his  thirst  to  fill. 

But  alway  Nature  seemed  to  meet  the  power 
Of  his  high  mind,  to  aid,  and  to  reward 

His  reverent  hope  with  her  sublimest  lore. 
Each  sentiment  that  burned ;  each  falsehood  warred 

Against  and  slain  ;  each  novel  truth  inwrought  — 
What  were  they  but  the  living  lamps  that  starred 

His  transit  o'er  the  tremulous  gloom  of  Thought  ? 
More,  and  now  more,  their  gathered  brilliancy 

On  the  one  master  notion  sending  out, 
Which  brooded  ever  o'er  the  passionate  sea 

Of  his  deep  soul ;  but  ah !  too  dimly  seen, 
And  formless  in  its  own  immensity  ! 

Last  came  the  joy,  when  that  phantasmal  scene 
Lay  in  full  glory  round  his  outward  sense  ; 

And  who  had  scomed  before  in  hatred  keen 
Refuged  their  baseness  now :  for  no  pretence 

Could    wean   their   souls    from   awe ;   they   dared 

not  doubt 
That  with  them  walked  on  earth  a  spirit  intense. 

So  others  trod  his  path  :  and  much  was  wrought 
In  the  new  land  that  made  the  angels  weep. 

That  innocent  blood  —  it  was  not  shed  for  nought ! 


90  T1MDUCTOO. 

My  God !  it  is  an  hour  of  dread,  when  leap, 

Like  a  fire-fountain,  forth  the  energies 
Of  Guilt,  and  desolate  the  poor  man's  sleep. 

Yet  not  alone  for  torturing  agonies, 
Though  meriting  most,  nor  all  that  storm  of  Woe 

Which  did  entempest  their  pure  fulgent  skies, 
Shall  the  deep  curse  of  ages  cling,  and  grow 

To  the  foul  names  of  those  who  did  the  deed, 
The  lusters  for  the  gold  of  Mexico ! 

Mute  are  th'  ancestral  voices  we  did  heed, 
The  tones  of  superhuman  melody : 

And  the  "  veiled  maid "  *  is   vanished,  who    did 
feed 

*  These  lines  contain  an  allusion  to  that  magnificent  passage  in 
Mr.  Shelley's  "  Alastor,"  where  he  describes  "  the  spirit  of  sweet 
human  love  "  descending  in  vision  on  the  slumbers  of  the  wander- 
ing poet.  How  far  I  have  a  right  to  transfer  "  the  veiled  maid  " 
to  my  own  Poem,  where  she  must  stand  for  the  embodiment  of 
that  love  for  the  unseen,  that  voluntary  concentration  of  our 
vague  ideas  of  the  Beauty  that  ought  to  be,  on  some  one  spot,  or 
country  yet  undiscovered,  as  in  the  instances  I  have  chosen,  on 
America  or  the  African  city;  this  the  critics,  if  I  have  any,  may 
determine.  I  shall,  however,  be  content  to  have  trespassed  against 
the  commandments  of  Art,  if  I  should  have  called  any  one's  atten- 
tion to  that  wonderful  Poem,  which  cannot  long  remain  in  its  pres- 
ent condition  of  neglect,  but  which,  when  it  shall  have  emerged 
into  the  light,  its  inheritance  will  produce  wonder  and  enthusiastic 
delight  in  thousands,  who  will  learn  as  the  work,  like  even-  per- 
fect one,  grows  upon  them,  that  the  deep  harmonies  and  glorious 
imaginations  in  which  it  is  clothed,  are  not  more  true  than  the 


TIMBUCTOO.  91 

By  converse  high  the  faith  of  liberty 

In    young    unwithered    hearts,    and    Virtue,    and 
Truth, 

great  moral  idea  which  is  its  permeating  life.    The  lines  alluded 
to  are  these:  — 

"  The  Poet  wandering  on,  through  Arabic 
And  Persia,  and  the  wild  Carmariian  waste, 
And  o'er  the  aerial  mountains  which  pour  down 
Indus  and  Oxus  from  their  icy  caves, 
In  joy  and  exultation  held  his  way 
Till  in  the  vale  of  Cachm'ire,  far  within 
Its  loneliest  dell,  where  odorous  plants  entwine 
Beneath  the  hollow  rocks  a  natural  bower, 
Beside  a  sparkling  rivulet  he  stretched 
His  languid  limbs.     A  vision  on  his  sleep 
There  came,  a  dream  of  hopes  that  never  yet 
Had  flushed  his  cheek.    He  dreamed  a  veiled  maid 
Sate  near  him,  talking  in  low  solemn  tones. 
Her  voice  was  like  the  voice  of  his  own  soul, 
Heard  in  the  calm  of  thought:  its  music  long, 
Like  woven  sounds  of  streams  and  breezes,  held 
His  inmost  sense  suspended  in  its  web 
Of  many-colored  woof  and  shifting  hues. 
Knowledge  and  Truth  and  Virtue  were  her  theme, 
And  lofty  hopes  of  divine  liberty, 
Thoughts  the  most  dear  to  him,  and  poesy, 
Herself  a  Poet.     Soon  the  solemn  moed 
Of  her  pure  mind  kindled  through  all  her  frame 
A  permeating  fire:  wild  numbers  then 
She  raised  with  voice  stifled  with  tremulous  sobs 
Subdued  by  its  own  pathos:  her  fair  hands 
Were  bare  alone,  sweeping  from  some  strange  harp 


92  TIMBUCTOO. 

And  every  thing  that  makes  us  joy  to  be  ! 

Lo!  there  hath  passed  away  a  glory  of  Youth 
From  this  our  world ;  and  all  is  common  now, 

And  sense  doth  tyrannize  o'er  Love  and  Ruth. 
What,  is  Hope  dead  ?  and  gaze  we  her  pale  brow, 

Like  the  cold  statues  round  a  Roman's  bier, 
Then   tearless   travel  on   through   tracts   of  human 

woe? 

No !  there  is  one,  one  ray  that  lingers  here, 
To  battle  with  the  world's  o'ershadowing  form, 

Like  the  last  firefly  of  a  Tuscan  year, 
Or  dying  flashes  of  a  noble  storm. 

Beyond  the  clime  of  Tripoly,  and  beyond 
Bahr  Abiad,  where  the  lone  peaks,  unconform 

To  other  hills,  and  with  rare  foliage  crowned, 
Hold  converse  with  the  Moon,  a  City  stands 

Which  yet  no  mortal  guest  hath  ever  found. 
Around  it  stretch  away  the  level  sands 

Into  the  silence :  pausing  in  his  course, 
The  ostrich  kens  it  from  his  subject  lands. 

Here  with  faint  longings  and  a  subdued  force 
Once  more  was  sought  th'  ideal  aliment 

Strange  symphony,  and  in  her  branching  veins 
The  eloquent  blood  told  an  ineffable  tale, 
The  beating  of  her  heart  was  heard  to  fill 
The  pauses  of  her  music,  and  her  breath 
Tumultuously  accorded  with  those  fits 
Of  intermitted  song." 


TIMBUCTOO.  93 

Of  Man's  most  subtle  being,  the  prime  source 
Of  all  his  blessings :  here  might  still  be  blent 

"Whate'er  of  heavenly  beauty  in  form  or  sound 
Illumes  the  Poet's  heart  with  ravishment. 

Thou  fairy  City,  which  the  desert  mound 
Encompasseth,  thou  alien  from  the  mass 

Of  human  guilt,  I  would  not  wish  thee  found ! 
Perchance  thou  art  too  pure,  and  dost  surpass 

Too  far  amid  th'  Ideas  ranged  high 
In  the  Eternal  Reason's  perfectness, 

To  our  deject  and  most  embased  eye, 
To  look  unharmed  on  thy  integrity, 

Symbol  of  Love,  and  Truth,  and  all  that  cannot 

die. 
Thy  Palaces  and  pleasure-domes  to  me 

Are  matter  of  strange  thought:  for  sure  thou  art 
A  splendor  in  the  wild :  and  aye  to  thee 

Did  visible  guardians  of  the  Earth's  great  heart 
Bring    their    choice    tributes,    culled    from    many    a 
mine, 

Diamond,  and  jasper,  porphyry,  and  the  art 
Of  figured  chrysolite :  nor  silver  shine 

There  wanted,  nor  the  mightier  power  of  gold : 
So  wert  thou  reared  of  gore,  City  divine  ! 

And  who  are  they  of  blisses  manifold, 
That  dwell  within  thee  ?     Spirits  of  delight, 

It  may  be  spirits  whose  pure  thoughts  enfold, 


94  T1MBUCTOO. 

In  eminence  of  Being,  all  the  light 

That  interpenetrates  this  mighty  all, 
And  doth  endure  in  its  own  beauty's  right. 

And  oh  !  the  vision  were  majestical 
To  them,  indeed,  of  column,  and  of  spire, 

And  hanging  garden,  and  hoar  waterfall ! 
For  we,  poor  prisoners  of  this  earthy  mire, 

See  little  ;  they,  the  essence  and  the  law 
Robing  each  other  in  its  peculiar  tire. 

Yet  moments  have  been,  when  in  thought  I  saw 
That  city  rise  upon  me  from  the  void, 

Populous  with  men :  and  phantasy  would  draw 
Such  portraiture  of  life,  that  I  have  joyed 

In  over-measure  to  behold  her  work, 
Rich  with  the  myriad  charms,  by  evil  unalloyed. 

Methought  I  saw  a  nation,  which  did  heark 
To  Justice,  and  to  Truth:  their  ways  were  strait, 

And  the  dread  shadow,  Tyranny,  did  lurk 
Nowhere  about  them :  not  to  scorn,  or  hate 

A  living  thing  was  their  sweet  nature's  bond : 
So  every  soul  moved  free  in  kingly  state. 

Suffering  they  had  (nor  else  were  virtue  found 
In  these  our  pilgrim  spirits)  :  gently  still 

And  as  from  cause  external  came  the  wound, 
Not  like  a  gangrene  of  soul-festering  ill, 

To  taint  the  springs  of  life,  and  undermine 
The  holy  strength  of  their  majestic  will. 


T1MBUCTOO.  95 

Methought  I  saw  a  face  whose  every  line 
Wore  the  pale  cast  of  Thought ;  *  a  good,  old  man, 

Most  eloquent,  who  spake  of  things  divine. 
Around  him  youths  were  gathered,  who  did  scan 

His  countenance  so  grand  and  mild;  and  drank 
The  sweet,  sad  tones  of  Wisdom,  which  outran 

The  lifeblood,  coursing  to  the  heart,  and  sank 
Inward  from  thought  to  thought,  till  they  abode 

'Mid  Being's  dim  foundations,  rank  by  rank 
With  those  transcendent  truths,  arrayed  by  God 

In  linked  armor  for  untiring  fight, 
Whose  victory  is,  where  time  hath  never  trod. 

Methought  I  saw  a  maiden  in  the  light 
Of  beauty  musing  near  an  amaranth  bower, 

Herself  a  lordly  blossom.     Past  delight 
Was  fused  in  actual  sorrow  by  the  power 

Of  mightiest  Love  upon  her  delicate  cheek  ; 
And  magical  was  her  wailing  at  that  hour. 

For  aye  with  passionate  sobs  she  mingled  meek 
Smiles  of  severe  content :  as  though  she  raised 

To  Him  her  inmost  heart,  who  shields  the  weak. 

*  These  characters  are  of  course  purely  ideal,  and  meant  to 
show,  by  way  of  particular  diagram,  that  right  temperament  of 
the  intellect  and  the  heart  which  I  have  assigned  to  this  favored 
nation.  I  cannot,  however,  resist  the  pleasure  of  declaring,  that 
in  the  composition  of  the  lines  "  Methought  I  saw,"  &c.,  my 
thoughts  dwelt  almost  involuntarily  on  those  few  conversations 
which  it  is  my  delight  to  have  held  with  that  "  good  old  man,  most 
eloquent,"  Samuel  Coleridge. 


96  TIMBUCTOO. 

She  wept  nor  long  in  solitude  :  I  gazed, 

Till  women,  and  sweet  children  came,  and  took 
Her  hand,  and  uttered  meaning  words,  and  praised 

The  absent  one  with  eyes,  which  as  a  book 
Revealed  the  workings  of  the  heart  sincere. 

In  sooth,  it  was  a  glorious  thing  to  look 
Upon  that  interchange  of  smile  and  tear! 

But  when  the  mourner  turned,  in  innocent  grace 
Lifting  that  earnest  eye  and  forehead  clear, 

Oh  then,  methought,  God  triumphed  in  her  face! 
But  these  are  dreams :  though  ministrant  on  good, 

Dreams  are  they  ;  and  the  Night  of  things  their 

place. 
So  be  it  ever !    Ever  may  the  mood 

"  In  which  the  affections  gently  lead  us  on "  * 
Be  as  thy  sphere  of  visible  life.     The  crowd, 

The  turmoil,  and  the  countenances  wan 
Of  slaves,  the  Power-inchanted,  thou  shalt  flee, 

And   by    the    gentle    heart    be    seen,    and    loved 

alone. 

June,  1829. 
*  Wordsworth's  "  Tintern  Abbey." 


SONNETS.  97 


SONNETS. 


ALLA  STATUA,  CH'  E  A  FIRENZE   DI  LOKENZO  DUCA  D'UKBINO, 
SCOLTA  DA  MICHEL  ANQIOLO. 

_L)EH,  chi  se'  tu,  ch'  in  si  superba  pietra 
Guardi,  e  t'  accigli,  piu  che  creatura? 
La  maesta  della  fronte  alta,  e  pura, 
L'  occhio,  ch'  appena  il  duro  marmo  arretra 
L'  agevol  man,  da  cui  bel  velo  impetra 
La  mossa  de  pensier  profonda,  e  scura, 
Dicon :  "  Quest!  e  Lorenzo,  e  se  pur  dura 
Suo  nome  ancor,  questo  il  Destino  spetra" 
Tosca  magion  —  ahi  vituperio  ed  onta 
Delia  nobil  citta,  che  1'  Arno  infiora, 
Qual  danno  fe  de  vostre  palle  il  suono! 
Pure  innanzi  a  beltade  ira  tramonta : 
E  Fiorenza,  ch'  1  giogo  ange,  e  scolora, 
Dice  ammirando,  "  Oime  !  quas'  io  perdono  ! " 

ROME,  Dec.  1827. 


98  SONNETS. 


GrENOVA  bella,  a  cui  1'  altiera  voce  * 
Di  costanza  e  virtu  feo  grande  onore, 
Allorche  rosseggio  quel  tristo  albore, 

Pien  di  spaventi,  e  gridi,  e  guasto  atroce 

E'l  fiume  ostil,  che  mai  non  mise  foce 
Nel  dolce  suol,  che  della  terra  e  fiore, 
Piagava  si,  raa  non  vincea  quel  core. 

Or  che  ti  resta?     Or  dov'  e  la  feroce 

Antica  mente  ?     E  Lei  —  tra  pene,  e  guai 
L'  invitta  Liberia  —  qual  rupe  or  serba  ? 

Forse  (oh  pensier !)  qui  volge  il  passo  omai, 
E  freme,  e  tace ;  o  con  dolcessa  acerba 

Dice,  oscurando  del  bel  viso  i  rai, 

"  Com'  e  caduta  la  citta  superba ! " 

Dec.  1827. 

*  Alluding  to  the  Sonnet  of  Passerini,  beginning  "  Geneva 
mia."    It  is  in  the  "  Componimenti  Lirici "  of  Mathias. 


SONNETS.  99 


TO   AN  ENGLISH  LADY. 
("TEA  BELLA  E  BUOXA  sou  so  QUAL  FOSSE  PIU,") 

Who,  not  having  fulfilled  her  promise  to  meet  me  at  a  Roman  festi- 
val, sent  me  a  note  requesting  pardon. 

_A  HI  vera  donna !  or  dal  tessuto  inganno 
Riconosco,  chi  sei :  la  gran  vaghezza 
Ch'  angelica  mi  parve,  or  fugge,  e  spezza 

Quel  caro  laccio  di  soave  affanno. 

Collo.  ch'  i  neri  anelli  un  marmo  fanno, 
Trecce,  che  piii  di  se  1'  anima  apprezza, 
E  voi,  begli  occhi  di  fatal  dolcezza, 

Che  feci  io  mai  per  meritar  tal  danno  ? 
Tu  pur,  notte  spietata,  or  vieni,  e  dille 

(Che  senza  testimon  nol  crederia) 

Com'  io  guardava  a  mille  visi,  e  mille, 
E  dicea,  sospirando,  in  fioco  suono, 

"  Mille  non  sono,  quel  ch'  una  saria "  — 
Va,  traditrice,  e  non  sperar  perdono. 

ROME,  Jan.  1828. 


100  SONNETS. 


SORITTE  SOT-  LAGO  D'ALBANO. 

oOAVE  venticcl  ch'  intorno  spiri, 

Or  cogli  elci  scherzando,  or  sulle  sponde 
Destando  il  mormorar  di  lucid'  onde, 

Deli  non  tardar,  non  piu  frenar  tuoi  giri. 

Vattene  innanzi,  e  la  've  giuso  ammiri 
Un  fiorellin,  che  dall'  araena  fronde 
Gioia,  e  dolcezza  in  ogni  seno  infonde, 

China  le  piume,  e  dille  i  miei  sospiri. 

Quanta  invidia  ti  porto !     In  sul  bel  volto 
Lente  isvolazzi,  e  baoi  quel  natio 

Aureo  sorriso,  cui  veder  m'  e  tolto ! 
Fossi  pur  teco !     Ahi  quale  tremolio 

Al  cor  darebbe  il  trastullarmi  awolto 
Ne'  cari  lacri,  e  il  susurrar  "  Sonio ! " 

March,  1828. 


SONNETS.  1 01 


ON  A  LADY   SUFFERING  SEVERE  ILLNESS. 
(IMITATED  FROM  THE  ENGLISH.) 

±  IETA !  Pieta !  gran  Dio  !  deh,  volgi  omai 

.   L'impietosito  sguardo:  il  bel  sembiante 
Le  luce  giovanette,  e  vaghe,  e  sante, 

Non  mertan,  no,  sofFrir  dell'  empio  i  guai. 

"  Mortal,  mortal,  che  derilando  vai," 
Rispose  quel  del  trono  sfolgorante, 
"  Ve'  com'  ogni  dolor  par  che  si  schiante 

A'  puri  di  gran  Fede  augusti  rai" 

"  Alma  beata  e  questa !  E  se  pur  1'ange 
Nel  fior  degli  anni  suoi  cotanta  pena, 
To  la  sostengo  ;  e  questa  man  la  mena ! " 

Cosi  lo  spirto  umil,  cui  nulla  frange, 
(O  speme  di  virtu  salda,  e  serena!) 

Beve  1'amaro  nappo,  e  mai  non  piange. 

ROME,  April,  1828. 


102  SONNETS. 


ALLA  8IRENA,  NOME  AVITO  DI  NAPOLT, 
(8CRITTO    IN    TIROLO.) 

.DONNA  di  gran  poter,  ch'  il  colle  adorno 

Molci  regina,  u'  sospirar  non  lice, 
Fuori  ch'  ai  dolce  lai,  che  d'ogni  intorno 

S'odon  nell'  ombra  de'  gran  vati  altrice, 
Deh  vieni,  oh  tu  si  bella  —  e  senza  scorno 

(Pieta  per  fermo  a  niuna  dea  disdice) 
Favellami  di  lei,  ch'il  tuo  soggiorno 

Par  faccia  piu  ridente,  e  piu  felice. 
Misero,  che  ragiono  ?  il  suon  risponde 

D'Euro  ululando  tra  PAlpina  foglia ; 
Tu  pur  ti  stai  lontana  —  e  fai  gran  senno ; 
Che  se'l  tuo  vol  piegassi  ad  ogni   cenno 

Ch'  ad  or,  ad  or,  manda  1'atroce  doglia, 
Lungi  da  lei  verresti  a  torbid'  onde  ! 

May,  1828. 


SONNETS.  103 


ON  THE   PICTURE   OF   THE   THREE  FATES   IN  THE  PALAZZO     ' 
PITTI,   AT   FLORENCE. 

USUALLY   ASCRIBED   TO   MICHEL   ANGIOLO. 

but  a  Tuscan  hand  could  fix  ye  here 

In  rigidness  of  sober  coloring. 
Pale  are  ye,  mighty  Triad,  not  with  fear, 

But  the  most  awful  knowledge,  that  the  spring 
Is  in  you  of  all  birth,  and  act,  and  sense. 

I  sorrow  to  behold  ye :  pain  is  blent 
With  your  aloof  and  loveless  permanence, 

And  your  high  princedom  seems  a  punishment. 
The  cunning  limner  could  not  personate 

Your  blind  control,  save  in  th'  aspect  of  grief; 
So  does  the  thought  repugn  of  sovran  fate. 

Let  him  gaze  here  who  trusts  not  in  the  love 

Toward  which  all  being  solemnly  doth  move  : 
More  this  grand  sadness  tells,  than  forms  of  fairest 
life. 


104  SONNETS. 


TO   MALBK. 

JMALEK,  the  counsel  of  thine  amity 
I  slight  not,  kindly  tendered,  but  rejoice 
To  hear  or  praise  or  censure  from  thy  voice 

Both  for  thy  sake,  and  hers,  whose  spirit  in  thee 

Indwelleth  ever,  starlike  Poesy! 

Woe,  if  I  pass  the  temple  of  her  choice 
With  reckless  step,  or  th'  unexpressive  joys 

Disdain  of  fancy,  pure  to  song,  and  free ! 

Yet  deem  not  thou  thy  friend  of  early  days 
So  lost  to  high  emprize :  trust  me,  his  soul 
Sleeps  not  the    dreamless    sleep,  which    thou    art 
fearing. 

No !  still  on  lights  the  love  of  noble  praise, 
His  pilgrim  bark,  like  a  clear  star  appearing : 
And    oh,    how    bright    that    beam,    where    storm- 
waves  roll  ! 

June,  1828. 


SONNETS.  105 


blessing  and  delight  of  my  young  heart, 

Maiden,  who  was  so  lovely  and  so  pure, 
I  know  not  in  what  region  now  thou  art, 

Or  whom  thy  gentle  eyes  in  joy  assure. 
Not  the  old  hills  on  which  we  gazed  together, 

Not  the  old  faces  which  we  both  did  love, 
Not  the  old  books,  whence  knowledge  we  did  gather, 

Not  these,  but  others  now  thy  fancies  move. 
I  would  I  knew  thy  present  hopes  and  fears, 

All  thy  companions,  with  their  pleasant  talk, 
And  the  clear  aspect  which  thy  dwelling  wears : 

So,  though  in  body  absent,  I  might  walk 
With  thee  in  thought  and  feeling,  till  thy  mood 
Did  sanctify  mine  own  to  peerless  good. 

April,  1829. 


106  SONNETS. 


WRITTEN   IN  EDINBURGH. 

H/VEN  thus,  methinks,  a  city  reared  should  be, 
Yea,  an  imperial  city,  that  might  hold 

Five  times  a  hundred  noble  towns  in  fee, 
And  either  with  their  might  of  Babel  old, 

Or  the  rich  Roman  pomp  of  empery 

Might  stand  compare,  highest  in  arts  enroll'd,    • 

Highest  in  arms ;  brave  tenement  for  the  free, 
Who  never  crouch  to  thrones,  or  sin  for  gold. 

Thus  should  her  towers  be  raised  —  with  vicinage 
Of  clear  bold  hills,  that  curve  her  very  streets, 
As  if  to  vindicate,  'mid  choicest  seats 

Of  art,  abiding  Nature's  majesty, 

And  the  broad  sea  beyond,  in  calm  or  rage 

Chainless  alike,  and  teaching  Liberty. 


SONNETS.  107 


TO   AX  ADMIRED  LADY. 

VV  HEN  thou  art  dreaming,  at  the  time  of  night 

That  dreams  have  deepest  truth,  comes    not    the 

form 
Of  th'  ancient  poet  near  thee  ?     Streams  not  light 

From  his  immortal  presence,  chasing  harm 
From  thy  pure  pillow,  and  each  nocturnal  sprite 

Freighting  with  happy  fancies  to  thy  soul  ? 

Says  he  not,  "  Surely,  maiden,  my  control 
Shall  be  upon  thee,  for  thy  soul  is  dight 
In  a  most  clear  majestic  tenderness, 

And  natural  art  springs  freshly  from  its  deeps." 
Then  as  he  clasps  his  reverend  palms  to  bless, 

Out  from  the  dark  a  gentle  family  leaps, 
Juliet  and  Imogen,  with  many  a  fere, 
Acclaiming  all  "  Welcome,  our  sister  dear ! " 


108  STANZAS 


STANZAS. 


WRITTEN  AFTER  VISITING  MELROSE   ABBEY  IN  COMPANY 
OF  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 

I. 

_L  LIVED  an  hour  In  fair  Melrose ; 

It  was  not  when  "the  pale  moonlight" 
Its  magnifying  charm  bestows ; 

Yet  deem  I  that  I  "  viewed  it  right." 
The  wind-swept  shadows  fast  careered, 
Like  living  things  that  joyed  or  feared, 
Adown  the  sunny  Eildon  Hill, 
And  the  sweet  winding  Tweed  the  distance  crowned 
well. 

n. 

I  inly  laughed  to  see  that  scene 

Wear  such  a  countenance  of  youth, 
Though  many  an  age  those  hills  were  green, 

And  yonder  river  glided  smooth, 
Ere  in  these  now  disjointed  walls 
The  Mother  Church  held  festivals, 


STANZAS.  log 

And  full-voiced  anthemings  the  while 

Swelled    from    the    choir,    and    lingered    down    the 

echoing  aisle. 

/ 

in. 

I  coveted  that  Abbey's  doom ; 

For  if  I  thought  the  early  flowers 
Of  our  affection  may  not  bloom, 

Like  those  green  hills  through  countless  hours, 
Grant  me  at  least  a  tardy  waning, 
Some 'pleasure  still  in  age's  paining; 
Though  lines  and  forms  must  fade  away, 
Still  may  old  Beauty  share  the  empire  of  Decay  ! 

IV. 

But  looking  toward  the  grassy  mound 
Where  calm  the  Douglas  chieftains  lie, 

Who,  living,  quiet  never  found, 

I  straightway  learnt  a  lesson  high : 

For  there  an  old  man  sat  serene, 

And  well  I  knew  that  thoughtful  mien 

Of  him  whose  early  lyre  had  thrown 

Over  these  mould'ring  walls  the  magic  of  its  tone. 

v. 

Then  ceased  I  from  my  envying  state 
And  knew  that  awless  intellect 


110  STANZAS. 

Hath  power  upon  the  ways  of  fate, 

And  works  through  time  and  space  uncheckt. 
That  minstrel  of  old  chivalry 
In  the  cold  grave  must  come  to  be, 
But  his  transmitted  thoughts  have  part 
In  the  collective  mind,  and  never  shall  depart. 

VI. 

It  was  a  comfort  too  to  see 

Those  dogs  that  from  him  ne'er  would  rove, 
And  always  eyed  him  rev'rently 

With  glances  of  depending  love. 
They  know  not  of  that  eminence 
Which  marks  him  to  my  reasoning  sense ; 
They  know  but  that  he  is  a  man, 
And  still  to  them  is  kind,  and  glads   them   all   he 

can. 

vn. 

And  hence  their  quiet  looks  confiding, 

Hence  grateful  instincts  seated  deep, 
By  whose  strong  bond,  were  ill  betiding, 

They'd  risk  their  own  his  life  to  keep. 
What  joy  to  watch  in  lower  creature 
Such  dawning  of  a  moral  nature, 
And  how  (the  rule  of  things  obey) 
They  look  to  a  higher  mind   to   be    their  ,law  and 
stay  ! 

Avffitst,  1829. 


STANZAS.  1 1 1 


WRITTEN  AT  CAUDEBEC  IN  NORMANDY. 
I. 

WHEN  life  is  crazy  in  ray  limbs, 

And  hope  is  gone  astray, 
And  in  my  soul's  December  fade 

The  love-thoughts  of  its  May, 
One  spot  of  earth  is  left  to  me 

Will  warm  my  heart  again : 
'Tis  Caudebec  and  Mailleraie 

On  the  pleasant  banks  of  Seine. 

ii. 

The  dark  wood's  crownal  on  the  hill, 

The  river  curving  bright, 
The  graceful  barks  that  rest,  or  play, 

Pure  creatures  of  delight,  — 
Oh,  these  are  shows  by  ..nature  given 

To  warm  old  hearts  again, 
At  Caudebec  and  Mailleraie 

On  the  pleasant  banks  of  Seine. 


112  STANZAS. 

m. 

The  Tuscan's  land,  I  loved  it  well, 

And  the  Switzer's  clime  of  snow, 
And  many  a  bliss  me  there  befell 

I  never  more  can  know; 
But  for  quiet  joy  of  nature's  own 

To  warm  the  heart  again, 
Give  me  Caudebec  and  Mailleraie 

On  the  pleasant  banks  of  Seine. 

June,  1829. 


STANZAS.  JI3 


A   FAREWELL   TO   GLENARBAC.* 
I. 

W  HEX  grief  is  felt  along  the  blood, 

And  checks  the  breath  with  sighs  unsought, 
'Tis  then  that  Memory's  power  is  wooed 

To  soothe  by  ancient  forms  of  thought. 
It  is  not  much,  yet  in  that  day 

Will  seem  a  gladsome  wakening ; 
And  such  to  me,  in  joy's  decay, 

The  memory  of  the  Roebuck  Glen. 

u. 

Nor  less,  when  fancies  have  their  bent, 

And  eager  passion  sweeps  the  mind  ; 
'Twill  bless  to  catch  a  calm  content 

From  happy  moment  far  behind. 
Oh,  it  is  of  a  heavenly  brood 

That  chast'ning  recollection ! 
And  such  to  me,  in  joyous  mood, 

The  memory  of  the  Roebuck  Glen. 

*  The  Glen  of  the  Roebuck. 

8 


114  STANZAS. 

in. 

I  grieve  to  quit  this  lime-tree  walk, 

The  Clyde,  the  Leven's  milder  blue 
To  lose,  yon  craigs  that  nest  the  hawk 

Will  soar  no  longer  in  my  view. 
Yet  of  themselves  small  power  to  move 

Have  they :  their  light's  a  borrowed  thing 
Won  from  her  eyes,  for  whom  I  love 

The  memory  of  the  Roebuck  Glen. 

IV. 

Oh  dear  to  nature,  not  in  vain 

The  mountain  winds  have  breathed  on  thee  ! 
Mild  virtues  of  a  noble  strain, 

And  beauty  making  pure  and  free, 
Pass  to  thee  from  the  silent  hills : 

And  hence,  where'er  thy  sojourning, 
Thine  eye  with  gentle  weeping  fills    - 

At  memory  of  the  Roebuck  Glen. 

v. 

Thou  speedest  to  the  sunny  shore, 

Where  first  thy  presence  on  me  shone  ; 

Alas !  I  know  not  whether  more 

These  eyes  shall  claim  thee  as  their  own : 

But  should  a  kindly  star  prevail, 

And  should  we  meet  far  hence  again, 


STANZAS.  115 

How  sweet  in  other  lands  to  hail 
The  memory  of  the  Roebuck  Glen. 

VI. 

Oh,  when  the  thought  conies  o'er  my  heart 

Of  happy  meetings  yet  to  be, 
The  very  feeling  that  thou  art 

Is  deep  as  that  of  life  to  me ; 
Yet  should  sad  instinct  in  my  breast 

Speak  true,  and  darker  chance  obtain, 
Bless  with  one  tear  my  final  rest, 

One  memory  from  the  Roebuck  Glen. 

July,  1829. 


Il6  STANZAS. 


WRITTEN  ON   THE  BANKS   OF  THE  TAY. 
I. 

I   SAW  a  child  upon  a  Highland  moor 

Playing  with  heath-flowers  in  her  gamesome  mood, 

And  singing  snatches  wild  of  Gaelic  lore 

That  thrilled  like  witch-notes  my  susceptive  blood. 

I  spake  a  Southern  word,  but  not  the  more 
Did  she  regard  or  move  from  where  she  stood. 

It  seemed  the  business  of  her  life  to  play 

With  euphrasies  and  bluebells  day  by  day. 

II. 

Then  my  first  thought  was  of  the  joy  to  grow 
With  her,  and  like  her,  as  a  mountain  plant, 

That  to  one  spot  attached  doth  bud  and  blow, 
Then,  in  the  rains  of  autumn,  leaves  to  vaunt 

Its  fragrance  to  the  air,  and  sinks,  till  low 
Winter  consign  it,  like  a  satiate  want, 

To  the  earth's  endearment,  who  will  fondly  nourish 

The  loosed  substance,  until  spring  reflourish. 

in. 

"To  be  thy  comrade,  and  thy  brother,  maiden, 
To  chaunt  with  thee  the  antique  song  I  hear : 


STANZAS.  117 

Joying  the  joy  that  looks  not  toward  its  fading, 
The  sweet  philosophy  of  young  life's  cheer ! 

We  should  be  like  two  bees  with  honey  laden, 
Or  two  blithe  butterflies  a  rose-tree  near ! "  — 

So  I  went  dreaming  how  to  play  a  child 

Once  more  with  her  who  'side  me  sang  and  smiled. 

IV. 

Then  a  stem  knowledge  woke  along  my  soul, 
And  sudden  I  was  sadly  made  aware 

That  childish  joy  is  now  a  folded  scroll, 

And  new  ordainments  have  their  several  fair : 

When  evening  lights  press  the  ripe  greening  knoll, 
True  heart  will  never  wish  the  morning  there  : 

Where  arched  boughs  enlace  the  golden  light, 

Did  ever  poet  pray  for  franchised  sight. 

v. 

When  we  were  children,  we  did  sigh  to  reach 
The  eminence  of  a  man  ;  yet  in  our  thought, 

And  in  the  prattled  fancies  of  our  speech, 
It  was  a  baby-man  we  fashioned  out ; 

And  now  that  childhood  seems  the  only  leech 
For  all  the  heartaches  of  a  rough  world  caught, 

Sooth  is,  we  wish  to  be  a  twofold  thing, 

And  keep  our  present  self  to  watch  within. 

July,  1829. 


Il8  STANZAS. 


ON  MY  SISTER'S   BIRTHDAY. 
WRITTEN  AT   CALLANDER,   NEAR   LOCH   KATRINE. 

I. 

FAIR  fall  the  day!     Tis  thirteen  years 

Since  on  this  day  was  Ellen  born : 
And  shed  the  dark  world's  herald  tears 

On  such  another  summer's  morn.     . 
I  may  not  hear  her  laughter's  flow, 

Nor  watch  the  smile  upon  her  face, 
But  in  my  heart  I  surely  knpw 

There's  joy  within  her  dwelling-place. 

II. 

Oh,  at  the  age  of  fair  thirteen 

A  birthday  is  a  thing  of  power : 
The  meadows  wear  a  livelier  green, 

Be  it  a  time  of  -sun,  or  shower ; 
We  scarce  believe  the  robin's  note 

Unborrowed  from  the  nightingale, 
And  when  the  sweet  long  day  is  out, 

Our  dreams  take  up"  the  merry  tale. 


STANZAS.  119 

in. 

That  pleasure  being  innocent, 

With  innocence  alone  accords  ; 
The  souls  that  Passion's  strife  has  rent 

Have  other  thoughts  and  other  words ; 
They  cannot  bear  that  meadow's  green  ; 

Strange  grief  is  in  the  robin's  song ; 
And  when  they  hope  to  shift  the  scene, 

Their  dreams  the  anguish  but  prolong. 

IV. 

Oh,  pray  for  them,  thou  happy  child, 

Whose  souls  are  in  that  silent  woe  ; 
For  once,  like  thee,  they  gayly  smiled, 

And  hoped,  and  feared,  and  trusted  so ! 
Pray  for  them  in  thy  birthday  mood, 

They  may  not  pass  that  awful  bar, 
Which  separates  the  early  good 

From  spirits  with  themselves  at  war. 

v. 

Their  mind  is  now  on  loves  grown  cold, 
On  friendships  falling  slow  away, 

On  life  lived  fast,  and  heart  made  old 
Before  a  single  hair  was  gray. 

Or  should  they  be  one  thought  less  sad, 
Their  dream  is  still  of  things  forgone, 


1 20  STANZAS. 

Sweet  scenes  that  once  had  made  them  glad, 
Dim  faces  seen,  and  never  known. 

VI. 

My  own  dear  sister,  thy  career 

Is  all  hefore  thee,  thorn  and  flower ; 
Scarce  hast  thou  known  by  joy  or  fear 

The  still  heart-pride  of  Friendship's  hour : 
And  for  that  awful  thing  beyond, 

The  first  affections  going  forth, 
In  books  alone  thy  sighs  have  owned 

The  heaven,  and  then  the  hell,  on  earth. 


But  time  is  rolling  onward,  love, 

And  birthdays  are  another  chase ; 
Ah,  when  so  much  few  years  remove, 

May  thy  sweet  nature  hold  its  place  — 
Who  would  not  hope,  who  would  not  pray, 

That  looks  on  thy  demeanor  now  ? 
Yet  have  I  seen  the  slow  decay 

Of  many  souls  as  pure  as  thou. 

VIII. 

But  there  are  some  whose  light  endures  — 

A  sign  of  wonder,  and  of  joy, 
Which  never  custom's  mist  obscures, 


STANZAS.  121 

Or  passion's  treacherous  gusts  destroy. 
God  make  with  them  a  rest  for  thee  ! 

For  thou  art  turned  toward  stormy  seas, 
And  when  they  call  thee  like  to  me, 

Some  terrors  on  my  bosom  seize. 


Yet  why  to-day  this  mournful  tone, 

When  thou  on  gladness  hast  a  claim  ? 
How  ill  befits  a  boding  moan 

From  one  who  bears  a  brother's  name  ! 
Here  fortune,  fancifully  kind, 

Has  led  me  to  a  lovely  spot, 
"Where  not  a  tree  or  rock  I  find, 

My  sister,  that  recalls  thee  not ! 

x. 

Benan  is  worth  a  poet's  praise  ; 

Bold  are  the  cairns  of  Benvenue  ; 
Most  beautiful  the  winding  ways 

Where  Trosachs  open  on  the  view  ; 
But  other  grace  Loch  Katrine  wears, 

When  viewed  by  me  from  Ellen's  Isle  ; 
A  mngic  tint  on  all  appears  ; 

It  comes  from  thy  remembered  smile ! 


122  STANZAS. 

XI. 

'Twas  there  that  Lady  of  the  Lake, 

Moored  to  yon  gnarled  tree  her  boat ; 
And  where  Fitz  James's  horn  bade  wake 

Each  mountain  echo's  lengthened  note ; 
'Twas  from  that  slope  the  maiden  heard : 

Sweet  tale  !  but  sweeter  far  to  me, 
From  dreamy  blendings  of  that  word, 

With  all  my  thoughts  and  hopes  of  thee. 


STANZAS.  123 


FROM  SCHILLER. 
WRITTEN  AT   MALVERN. 

I. 

JL  0  yonder  vale  where  shepherds  dwell, 
There  came  with  every  dawning  year, 

Ere  earliest  larks  their  notes  did  trill, 
A  lady  wonderful  and  fair. 

n. 

She  was  not  born  within  that  vale, 

And  none  from  whence  she  came  might  know, 
But  soon  all  trace  of  her  did  fail, 

"Whene'er  she  turned  her,  far  to  go. 

in. 

But  blessing  was  when  she  was  seen : 
All  hearts  that  day  were  beating  high : 

A  holy  calm  was  in  her  mien, 

And  queenly  glanced  her  maiden  eye. 

IV. 

She  brought  with  her  both  fruits  and  flowers 
Were  gathered  in  another  clime, 


124  STANZAS. 

Beneath  a  different  sun  from  ours, 
And  in  a  nature  more  sublime. 


v. 

To  each  and  all  a  gift  she  gave, 

And  one  had  fruit,  and  one  had  flower ; 

Nor  youth,  nor  old  man  with  his  stave, 
Did  homeward  go  without  his  dower. 

VI. 

So  all  her  welcome  guests  were  glad  — 
But  most  rejoiced  one  loving  pair, 

Who  took  of  her  the  hest  she  had, 
The  brightest  blooms  that  ever  were  ! 


LINES.  125 


LINES 

SPOKEN    IX   THE  CHARACTER   OF   PTG5IALION. 

WlilTTKX    OX   THE  OCCASION    OF   A    REPRESENTED    CHARADE. 
VI' 

IIS  done,  the  work  is  finished  —  that  last  touch 
Was  as  a  God's  !     Lo !  now  it  stands  before  me, 
Even  as  long  years  ago  I  dreamed  of  it, 
Consummate  offspring  of  consummate  art ; 
Ideal  form  itself!     Ye  Gods,  I  thank  you, 
That  I  have  lived  to  this :  for  this  thrown  off 
The  pleasure  of  my  kind ;  for  this  have  toiled 
Days,    nights,    months,    years ;  —  am    not    I    recom- 
pensed ? 

Who  says  an  artist's  life  is  not  a  king's  ? 
I  am  a  king,  alone  among  the  crowd 
Of  busy  hearts  and  looks  —  apart  with  nature 
I  sit,  a  God  upon  the  earth,  creating 
More  lovely  forms  than  flesh  and  blood  can  equal. 
Jove's  workmanship  is  perishable  clay, 
But  mine  immortal  marble  ;  when  the  proudest 
Of  our  fair  city  dames  is  laid  i'  the  dust 
This  creature  of  my  soul  will  still  be  lovely. 
Let  me  contemplate  thee  again.     That  lip  — 


126  LINES. 

How  near  it  wears  the  crimson !  and  that  eye  — 
How  strives  it  with  the  marble's  vacancy ! 
Methinks  if  thou  wetf  human,  I  could  love  thee  ; 
But  that  thou  art  not,  nor  wilt  ever  be  — 
Ne'er  know  and  feel  how  beautiful  thou  art. 

0  God,  I   am   alone   then  —  she  hears  not  — 
And  yet  how  like  to  life!     Ha  —  blessed  thought, 
Gods  have  heard  prayers  ere  now,  Hear  me,  bright 

Venus, 

Queen  of  my  dreams,  hear  from  thy  throne  of  light, 
Forgive  the  pride  that  made  my  human  heart 
Forget  its  nature.     Let  her  live  and  love! 

1  dare  not  look  again  —  my  brain  swims  round  — 
I    dream  —  I    dream  —  even    now    methought    she 

moved  — 

If  'tis  a  dream,  how  will  I  curse  the  dawn 
That  wakes  me  from  it !    There  —  that  bend  again  — 
It  is  no  dream  —  Oh,  speak  to  me  and  bless  me., 

1832. 


TO  TWO  SISTERS.  127 


TO  TWO   SISTERS. 


Love  thoughts  be  rich  when  canopied  with  flowers. —  SHAKSPEARE. 

In  Leigh  Hunt's  "  Indicator,"  it  is  stated  that  the  name  "  Man-" 
has  its  origin  in  a  Hebrew  word,  signifying  "  exalted;  "  and  a 
suggestion  occurs  in  the  same  book,  that  "  Emily"  may  possi- 
bly come  from  some  element  akin  to  "  Amo." 

W  ELL  do  your  names  express  ye,  sisters  dear, 
In  small  clear  sounds  awaking  mournful  thoughts, 
Mournful,  as  with  the  refluence  of  a  joy 
Too  pure  for  these  sad'  coasts  of  human  life. 
Methinks  had  not  your  happy  vernal  dawn 
Ever  arisen  on  my  tranced  view, 
Those  flowing  sounds  would  syllable  yourselves 
To  my  delighted  soul,  or  if  not  so, 
Yet  when  I  traced  their  deeper  meaning  out, 
And  fathomed  his  intent,  who  in  some  hour, 
Sweet  from  the  world's  young  dawn,  with  breath  of 

life 

Endowed  them,  then  your  certain  forms  would  come, 
Pale  but  true  visions  of  my  musing  eye. 
For  thee,  oh  !  eldest  flower,  whose  precious  name 


128  TO   TWO  SISTERS. 

Would  to  inspired  ears  by  Chebar  once, 

Or  the  lone  cavern  hid  from  Jezabel, 

Sound  as  "  Exalted  "  —  fitliest  therefore  borne 

By  that  mysterious  Lady  who  reposed 

In  Egypt  far,  beyond  the  impious  .touch 

Of  fell  Herodes,  or  the  unquiet  looks 

Of  men,  who  knew  not  Peace  to  earth  was  born, — 

There  happily  reposed,  waiting  the  time 

When  from  that  dark  interminable  day 

Should    by    God's    might    emerge,    and    Love    sit 

throned, 

And  Meekness  kiss  away  the  looks  of  Scorn ; 
Oh  Mary !   deem  that  Virgin  looks  on  thee 
With  an  especial  care  ;  lean  thou  on  her, 
As  the  ideal  of  thy  woman's  heart ; 
Pray  that  thy  heart  be  strengthened  from  above 
To  lasting  hope,  and  sovran  kindliness ; 
That  conquering  smiles  and  more  than    conquering 

tears 

May  be  thy  portion  through  the  ways  of  life : 
So  walk  thou  on  in  thy  simplicity, 
Following  the  Virgin  Queen  for  evermore ! 
Thou  other  name,  I  turn  with  deepest  awe 
To  think  of  all  thou  utterest  unto  me. 
Oh    Emily !  how  frail  must  be  my  speech, 
Weighed  with  the  thought  that  in  my  spirit  bums, 
To  find  no  rest  until  'tis  known  by  thee, 


TO    TWO  SISTERS.  129 

Till  our  souls  see  each  other  face  to  face. 
Thou  hearest  not,  alas  !  thou  art  afar, 
And  I  am  lone  as  ever,  sick  and  lone 
Roaming  the  weary  desert  of  my  doom 
Where  thou  art  not,  altho'  all  speaks  of  thee, 
All  yearns  for  thee,  my  love  :  each  barren  wold 
Would  teem  with  fruitful  glory  at  thy  smile. 
But  so  —  'twas  of  thy  name  that  I  would  speak, 
And  thus  I  will  not  lend  me  to  that  lie, 
That  from  the  old  and  proud  JEmilian  clan 
Thy  name  was  brought,  the  famous  Roman  dames 
Who,  in  a  sweeping  stole,  broad-zoned  and  full, 
With  solemn  brows  and  settled  eyes  severe, 
Tended  the  household  glory  of  their  lords. 
Ah.  no !  a  sweeter  birth,  fair  name,  is  thine ! 
Surely  some  soul  born  in  the  tender  light 
Of  golden  suns  and  deep-starred  night  divine, 
Feeling  the  want  of  some  far  gentler  word 
Than  any  speech  doth  own,  to  slake  the  thirst 
Of  his  impetuous  heart,  and  be  at  once 
The  symbol  and  relief  of  that  high  love 
Which  made  him  weary  and  faint  even  unto  death, 
He  gathering  up  the  wasted  energies 
For  a  last  work,  and  breathing  all  his  life 
Into  a  word  of  love,  said  "  Amelie," 
Meaning  "  Beloved ; "  and  then  methinks  he  died, 
And  the  melodious  magic  of  his  voice 
9 


130  TO   TWO  SISTERS. 

Shrank  in  its  fulness ;  but  the  amorous  air 
And  the  blue  sea  close  murmuring  to  the  shore 
With  a  sweet  regular  moan,  the  orange  grove 
Rising  from  that  slope  shore  in  richest  shade, 
Blent  with  the  spiked  aloe,  and  cactus  wild, 
And  rarer  growth  of  the  luxuriant  palm, 
Lived  in  that  word,  and  echoed  "  Emily," 
Tempering  the  tone  with  variation  sweet. 
Thou  seest  it,  maiden :  if  the  fairest  things 
Of  this  fair  world,  and  breathing  deepest  love, 
Sang  welcome  to  the  name  then  framed  for  thee, 
And  such  as  thee,  the  gentlest  of  the  earth, 
Should  I,  to  whom  this  tale  was  whispered 
By  some  kind  Muse  in  hours  of  silent  thought, 
Look  on  thy  face  and  call  thee  not  "  Beloved," 
It  were  in  me  unmeasured  blasphemy. 
Oh !  envy  not  thyself  thy  station  high : 
Consent  to  be  "Beloved;"  I  ask  no  more 
Than  to  fulfil  for  thee  thy  warning  nmne 
And  in  a  perfect  loving  live  and  die. 

Nov.  1830- 


_l  HIS  was  my  lay  in  sad  nocturnal  hour, 

"What  time  the  silence  felt  a  growing  sound 

Awful,  and  winds  began  among  the  trees, 

Nor  was  there  starlight  in  the  vaulted  sky. 

Now  is  the  eyelid  of  the  jocund  sun 

Uplifted  on  the  region  of  this  air; 

And  in  the  substance  of  his  living  light 

I  walk  enclosed,  therefore  to  matin  chaunts 

Of  all  delighted  birds  I  marry  a  note 

Of  human  voice  rejoicing  unto  thee 

Ever-loved,  warbling  my  rapture  now, 

As  erst  to  thee  I  made  melodious  moan. 

Then  I  believed  thee  distant  from  my  heart ; 

Thou  hadst  not  spoken  then,  I  had  not  heard : 

And  I  was  faint,  because  I  breathed  not 

Breath  of  thy  love,  wherein  alone  is  life  ; 

But  at  this  hour  my  heart  is  seen,  my  prayer 

Answered  and  crowned  with  blessing ;  I  have  looked 

Into  thine  eyes  which  have  not  turned  awry, 

But  rested  all  their  lavish  light  upon  me, 

Unutterably  sweet,  till  I  became 

Angelic  in  the  strength  of  tenderness, 

And  met  thy  soul  down-looking  into  mine 


132 

With  a  responsive  power ;  thy  word  hath  passed 

Upon  my  spirit,  and  is  a  light  forever, 

High  o'er  the  drifting  spray  of  circumstance. 

Thy  word,  the  plighted  word,  the  word  of  promise, 

And  of  all  comfort!     In  its  mighty  strength 

I  bid  thee  hail,  not  as  in  former  days, 

Not  as  my  chosen  only,  but  my  bride, 

My  very  bride,  coming  to  make  my  house 

A  glorious  temple !     Be  the  seal  of  God 

Upon  that  word  until  the  hour  be  full! 

Feb.  1831. 


STANZAS.  133 


TO  THE  LOVED   ONE. 


J\J.Y  heart  is  happy  now,  beloved, 

Albeit  thy  form  is  far  away  ; 
A  joy  that  will  not  be  removed 

Broods  on  me  like  a  summer's  day. 
Whatever  evil  Fate  may  do, 

It  cannot  change  what  has  been  thine  ; 
It  cannot  cast  those  words  anew, 

The  gentle  words  I  think  divine. 

No  touch  of  time  can  blight  the  glance 

That  blest  with  early  hope  my  love  ; 
New  years  are  dark  with  feaiful  chance, 

That  moment  is  with  God  above: 
And  never  more  from  me  departs 

Of  that  sweet  time  the  influence  rare, 
When  first  we  looked  into  our  hearts 

And  told  each  other  what  was  there. 

Yes,  I  am  happy,  love  ;  and  yet 

Long  cherished  pain  will  keep  a  strife; 


134  STANZAS. 

Something  half  fear  and  half  regret 
Is  lingering  at  the  seat  of  life. 

But  now  in  seasons  of  dismay 

What  cheering  hope  from  thoughts  of  thee  ! 

And  how  will  earnest  fancy  stray 

To  find  its  home  where  thou  mayst  be ! 

Sometimes  I  dream  thee  leaning  o'er 

The  harp  I  used  to  love  so  well ; 
Again  I  tremble  and  adore 

The  soul  of  its  delicious  swell ; 
Again  the  very  air  is  dim 

With  eddies  of  harmonious  might, 
And  all  my  brain  and  senses  swim 

In  a  keen  madness  of  delight. 

Sometimes  thy  pensive  form  is  seen 

On  the  dear  seat  beside  the  fire  ; 
There  plainest  thou  with  Madeline 

Or  Isabella's  lone  desire. 
He  knows  thee  not,  who  does  not  know 

The  tender  flashing  of  thine  eye 
At  some  melodious  tale  of  woe, 

And  the  sweet  smile  and  sweeter  sigh. 

How  oft  in  silent  moonlight  air, 

When  the  wide  earth  is  full  of  rest, 


STANZAS.  J35 

And  all  things  outward  seem  more  fair 
For  the  inward  spirit  less  opprest, 

I  look  for  thee,  I  think  thee  near, 

Thy  tones  are  thrilling  through  my  soul, 

Thy  dark  eyes  close  to  mine  appear, 
And  I  am  blest  beyond  control ! 

Yet  deem  not  thou  my  absent  state 

Is  measured  all  by  amorous  moan ; 
Clear-voiced  Love  hath  learned  of  Fate 

New  harmonies  of  deeper  tone. 
All  thoughts  that  in  me  live  and  burn, 

The  thirst  for  truth,  the  sense  of  power ; 
Freedom's  high  hope  —  to  thee  they  turn ; 

I  bring  them  as  a  precious  dower ! 

The  beauty  which  those  thoughts  adore 

Diffused  through  tliis  perennial  frame 
Centres  in  thee  ;  I  feel  it  more 

Since  thy  delivering  presence  came : 
And  with  a  clearer  affluence  now 

That  mystic  spirit  fills  my  heart, 
Wafts  me  on  hope's  enthusiast  flow, 

And  heals  with  prayer  the  guilty  smart. 

Oh  !  best  beloved,  it  were  a  bliss 
As  pure  as  aught  the  angels  feel, 


136  STANZAS. 

To  think  in  after  days  of  this, 

Should  time  a  strength  in  me  reveal 

To  fill  with  worthy  thoughts  and  deed 
The  measure  of  my  high  desire ; 

To  thee  were  due  the  glorious  meed, 
Thy  smiles  had  kindled  first  the  fire. 

But  if  the  starry  courses  give 
No  eminence  of  light  to  me, 
At  least  together  we  may  live, 

Together  loved  and  loving  be ; 

/ 
At  least  what  good  my  spirit  knows 

Shall  seek  in  thee  a  second  birth, 
And  in  thy  gentle  soul's  repose 

I'll  wean  me  from  the  things  of  earth. 

Even  now  begins  that  holy  life, 

For  when  I  kneel  in  Christian  prayer 
Thy  name  my  own,  my  promised  wife, 

Is  blent  with  mine  in  fondest  care. 
Oh  pray  for  me  that  both  may  know 

That  inward  bridal's  high  delight, 
And  both  beyond  the  grave  may  go 

Together  in  the  Father's  sight. 

Jan.  1831. 


SONNET.  137 


TO   MY   MQTHER. 

\V  HEN  barren  doubt  like  a  late-coming  snow 

Made  an  unkind  December  of  my  spring, 
That  all  the  pretty  flowers  did  droop  for  woe, 

And   the   sweet   birds    their  love  no   more   would 

sing  ; 
Then  the  remembrance  of  thy  gentle  faith, 

Mother  beloved,  would  steal  upon  my  heart ; 
Fond  feeling  saved  me  from  that  utter  scathe, 

And  from  thy  hope  I  could  not  live  apart. 
Now  that  my  mind  hath  passed  from  wintry  gloom, 

And  on  the  calmed  waters  once  again 
Ascendant  Faith  circles  with  silver  plume, 

That  casts  a  charmed  shade,  not  now  in  pain, 
Thou  child  of  Christ,  in  joy  I  think  of  thee, 

And  mingle  prayers  for  what  we  both  may  be. 

Jan.  1831. 


138  A   LOVEKS  REPROOF. 


A  LOVER'S  REPROOF. 


WlIEN  two  complaining  spirits  mingle, 
Saintly  and  calm  their  woes  become: 

Alas  the  grief  that  bideth  single, 

Whose  heart  is  drear,  whose  lips  are  dumb ! 

My  drooping  lily,  when  the  tears 
Of  morning  bow  thy  tender  head, 

Oh  scatter  them,  and  have  no  fears : 
They  kill  sometimes  if  cherished. 

Dear  Girl,  the  precious  gift  you  gave 

Was  of  yourself  entire  and  free. 
Why  front  alone  Life's  gloomy  wave, 

Why  fling  the  brilliant  foam  to  me  ? 

Am  I  the  lover  of  thy  mirth, 

A  trifling  thing  of  sunny  days,  — 

A  soul  forbid  for  want  of  worth, 

To  tread  with  thee  th'  unpleasant  ways  ? 


A   LOVER'S  REPROOF.  139 

No  —  trust  me,  love  ;  if  I  delight 

To  mark  thy  brighter  hour  of  pleasure, 

To  deep-eyed  Passion's  watchful  sight 
Thy  sadness  is  a  costlier  treasure. 

July,  1831. 


140  SONNET. 


A  MELANCHOLY  thought  had  laid  me  low ; 

A  thought  of  self-desertion,  and  the  death 
Of  feelings  wont  with  my  heart's  blood  to  flo\v, 

And  feed  the  inner  soul  with  purest  breath. 

The  idle  busy  star  of  daily  life, 
Base  passions,  haughty  doubts,  and  selfish  fears, 

Have  withered  up  my  being  in  a  strife 
Unkind,  and  dried  the  source  of  human  tears. 

One  evening  I  went  forth,  and  stood  alone 
With  Nature :  moon  there  was  not,  nor  the  light 
Of  any  star  in  heaven :  yet  from  the  sight 

Of  that  dim  nightfall  better  hope  hath  given 
Upon  my  spirit,  and  from  those  cedars  high 
Solemnly  changeless,  as  the  very  sky. 

Sept.   1830. 


A    SCENE  IN  SUMMER.  141 


A   SCENE  IN   SUMMER. 

i 

ALFRED,  I  would  that  you  behold  me  now, 

Sitting  beneath  a  mossy  ivied  wall 

On  a  quaint  bench,  which  to  that  structure  old 

Winds  an  accordant  curve.     Above  my  head 

Dilates  immeasurable  a  wild  of  leaves 

Seeming  received  into  the  blue  expanse 

That  vaults  this  summer  noon  :  before  me  lies 

A  lawn  of  English  verdure,  smooth  and  bright, 

Mottled  with  fainter  hues  of  early  hay, 

Whose  fragrance,  blended  with  the  rose  perfume 

From  that  white  flowering  bush,  invites  my  sense 

To  a  delicious  madness  —  and  faint  thoughts 

Of  childish  years  are  borne  into  my  brain 

By  unforgotten  ardors  waking  now. 

Beyond,  a  gentle  slope  leads  into  shade 

Of  mighty  trees,  to  bend  whose  eminent  crown 

Is  the  prime  labor  of  the  pettish  winds, 

That  now  in  lighter  mood  are  twirling  leaves 

Over  my  feet,  or  hurrying  butterflies, 


J42  A    SCENE  IN  SUMMER. 

And  the  gay  humming  things  that  summer  loves, 
Thro'  the  warm  air,  or  altering  the  bound 
Where  yon  elm-shadows  in  majestic  line 
Divide  dominion  with  the  abundant  light. 

June,  1831. 


SONNETS.  143 


Oil  Poetry,  oh  rarest  spirit  of  all 

That  dwell  within  the  compass  of  the  mind, 
Forsake  not  him,  whom  thou  of  old  didst  call: 

Still  let  me  seek  thy  face,  and  seeking  find. 
Some  years  have  gone  about  since  I  and  thou 

Became  acquainted  first :  we  met  in  AVOC  ; 
Sad  was  my  cry  for  help  as  it  is  now  ; 

Sad  too  thy  breathed  response  of  music  slow ; 

But  in  that  sadness  was  such  essence  fine, 
So  keen  a  sense  of  Life's  mysterious  name, 

And  high  conceit  of  natures  more  divine, 
That  breath  and  sorrow  seemed  no  more  the  same. 

Oh  let  me  hear  again  that  sweet  reply ! 

More  than  by  loss  of  thee  I  cannot  die. 

June,  1831. 


144  SONNETS. 


!  that  sometimes  even  a  duteous  life, 
If  uninspired  by  love,  and  love-born  joy, 

Grows  fevered  in  the  world's  unholy  strife, 

And  sinks  destroyed  by  that  it  would  destroy ! 

Beloved,  from  the  boisterous  deeds  that  fill 
The  measure  up  of  this  unquiet  time, 
The  dull  monotonies  of  Faction's  chime, 

And  irrepressible  thoughts  foreboding  ill, 
I  turn  to  thee  as  to  a  heaven  apart  — 

Oh  !  not  apart,  not  distant,  near  me  ever, 

So  near  my  soul  that  nothing  can  thee  sever ! 
How  shall  I  fear,  knowing  there  is  for  me 
A  city  of  refuge,  builded  pleasantly 

Within  the  silent  places  of  the  heart  ? 

May,  1831. 


SONNETS.  145 


WHY    throbbest    thou,    my    heart,    why    thickly 
breathest  ? 

I  ask  no  rich  and  splendid  eloquence  : 
A  few  words  of  the  warmest  and  the  sweetest 

Sure    thou    mayst    yield    without    such    coy   pre- 
tence : 
Open  the  chamber  where  affection's  voice, 

For  rare  occasions  is  kept  close  and  fine : 

Bid  it  but  say  "  sweet  Emily,  be  mine," 
So  for  one  boldness  thou  shalt  aye  rejoice. 
Fain  would  I  speak  when  the  full  music-streams 

Rise  from  her  lips  to  linger  on  her  face, 
Or  like  a  form  floating  through  Raffaelle's  dreams, 

Then  fixed  by  him  in  everliving  grace, 

She  sits  i'  the  silent  worship  of  mine  eyes. 

Courage,  my  heart :    change    thou   for  words  thy 
sighs. 


10 


146  SONNETS. 


oTILL  here  —  thou  hast  not  faded  from  my  sight, 
Nor  all  the  music  round  thee  from  mine  ear : 
Still    grace    flows    from    thee    to    the    brightening 
year, 

And  all  the  birds  laugh  out  in  wealthier  light. 

Still  am  I  free  to  close  my  happy  eyes, 
And  paint  upon  the  gloom  thy  mimic  form, 
That  soft  white  neck,  that  cheek  in  beauty  warm, 

And  brow  half  hidden  where  yon  ringlet  lies  ; 

With,  Oh  !  the  blissful  knowledge  all  the  while 
That  I  can  lift  at  will  each  curved  lid, 

And  my  fair  dream  most  highly  realize. 

The  time  will  come,  'tis  ushered  by  my  sighs, 
When  I  may  shape  the  dark,  but  vainly  bid 

True  light  restore  that  form,  those  looks,  that  smile. 


SONNETS.  147 


_L/ADY,  I  bid  thee  to  a  sunny  dome 
Ringing  with  echoes  of  Italian  song ; 
Henceforth  to  thee  these  magic  halls  belong, 

And  all  the  pleasant  place  is  like  a  home. 

Hark,  on  the  right  with  full  piano  tone, 
Old  Dante's  voice  encircles  all  the  air ; 
Hark  yet  again,  like  flute-tones  mingling  rare, 

Comes  the  keen  sweetness  of  Petrarca's  moan. 

Pass  thou  the  lintel  freely :  without  fear 

Feast  on  the  music :  I  do  better  know  thee, 
Than  to  suspect  this  pleasure  thou  dost  owe  me 

"Will  wrong  thy  gentle  spirit,  or  make  less  dear 
That  element  whence  thou  must  draw  thy  life ;  — • 
An  English  maiden  and  an  English  wife. 


148  SONNETS. 


oPEED  ye,  warm  hours,  along  th'  appointed  path. 

Speed,  though   ye    bring   but    pain,  slow  pain   to 

me ; 
I  will  not  much  bemoan  your  heavy  wrath, 

So  ye  will  make  my  lady  glad  and  free. 
What  is't  that  I  must  here  confined  be, 

If  she  may  roam  the  summer's  sweets  among, 
See  the  full-cupped  flower,  the  laden  tree, 

Hear  from  deep  groves  the  thousand-voiced  song? 
Sometimes  in  that  still  chamber  will  she  sit 

Trim  ranged  with  books,  and  cool  with  dusky  blinds, 
That  keep  the  moon  out,  there,  as  seemed  fit, 

To  sing,  or  play,  or  read  —  what  sweet  hope  finds 
Way  to  my  heart  ?  perchance  some  verse  of  mine  — 
Oh  happy  I !  speed  on,  ye  hours  divine ! 


SONNETS.  149 


\\HEN  gentle  fingers  cease  to  touch  the  string, 
Dear  Charles,  no  music  lingers  on  the  lyre  ; 

But  the  sea-shells  from  everlasting  ring 

With  the  deep  murmurs  of  their  home  desire  ; 

Lean  o'er  the  shell,  and  'twill  be  heard  to  plain 
Now  low,  now  high,  till  all  thy  sense  is  gone 

Into  the  sweetness  ;  then  depart  again, 

Still  though  unheard,  flows  on  that  inner  moan  ; 

Full  oft  like  one  of  these  our  human  heart 
Secretly  murmurs  on  a  loving  lay, 
Though  not  a  tone  finds  any  outward  way. 

Then  trust  me,  Charles,  nor  let  it  cause  thee  smart. 
That  seldom  in  my  songs  thy  name  is  seen  — 
"When  most  I  loved,  I  most  have  silent  been. 

1831. 


150  SONNETS. 


J.  HE  garden  trees  are  busy  with  the  shower 
That  fell  ere  sunset;  now  methinks  they  talk, 

Lowly  and  sweetly  as  befits  the  hour, 
One  to  another  down  the  grassy  walk. 

Hark  the  laburnum  from  his  opening  flower 
This  cherry-creeper  greets  in  whisper  light, 
While  the  grim  fir,  rejoicing  in  the  night, 

Hoarse  mutters  to  the  murmuring  sycamore. 

"What  shall  I  deem  their  converse  ?  would  they  hail 

The  wild  gray  light  that  fronts  yon  massive  cloud, 
Or  the  half  bow,  rising  like  pillared  fire  ? 
Or  are  they  sighing  faintly  for  desire 

That  with  May  dawn  their  leaves  may  be  o'erflowed, 

And  dews  about  their  feet  may  never  fail. 

1831. 


SCENE  AT  ROME.  151 


SCENE   AT  ROME. 


RAFFAELLE  sitting  in  his  Studio ;  FIAMMETTA  enters. 

R.  U BAREST,  I  wished  for  thee  a  moment  gone, 
And  lo,  upon  the  wish  thou  art  here. 

F.  Perhaps 

It  was  thy  wish  that  even  now  as  I  entered, 
Gleamed  through  the  citron-shadow,  like  a  star-beam, 
One  star-beam  of  some  high  predominant  star. 

R.  Why,  little  trifler,  whither  hast  thou  been 
That  thou  return'st  so  fair  fantastical  ? 

F.  Down  by  the  fountain,  where  the  dark  cool  alley 
Yields  into  sudden  light  of  cooler  spray. 
It  is  a  noble  evening  —  one  to  shame  thee  — 
For  the  least  hue  of  that  all-colored  heaven 
Bears  a  more  full  and  rich  divinity 
Than  the  best  touch  thy  pencil  ever  gave, — 
Thou  smilest  at  me. 

B.  Rather  should  I  sigh 


152  SCENE  AT  ROME. 

To  think  that  while  I  learn  to  love  thce  better, 
And  better  prize  all  that  belongs  to  thee, 
In  the  fair  company  I  live  with  always, 
The  tempting  faces,  and  warm  loving  shapes 
That  make  my  little  room  a  paradise, 
Thou  wandering  about,  from  lighted  fountains, 
From  groves  at  twilight  full  of  changing  magic, 
Or  yon  great  gallery  picture  hung  with  stars, 
Gatherest  contempt  for  that  poor,  mimic  thing, 
An  artist. 

F.  Thou  believest  not  thy  words, 

Else  could  I  call  a  thousand  witnesses 
To  swear  me  into  innocence  again. 

R.  Where  are  they? 

F.  Out  alas!  I  had  forgot  — 

I  have  them  not  —  I  know  not  where  they  dwell ; 
They  roam  in  a  dim  field  I  may  not  come  to, 
Nor  ever  see  them  more  ;  yet  were  they  once 
Familiar  beings,  inward  to  my  soul 
As  is  the  lifeblood  to  the  life. 

R.  The  answer  — 

We  have  the  riddle.     Who  are  these  unkind  ones 
Who  knew  the  thing  it  is  to  be  beside  thee. 
Looked  on  thy  face,  yet  had  the  hearts  to  leave  thee  ? 

F.    Oh    there    you    are    mistaken  —  you    are    too 

quick  — 
They  had  no  eyes  and  could  not  see  my  face  — 


SCENE  AT  ROME.  153 

They  had  no  power  to  stay — they  must  have  left 

me  — 

Each  in  his  turn  stood  on  the  downcleft  edge 
Of  a  most  mighty  river,  stood  and  fell, 
Borne  to  the  silent  things  that  are  no  more. 

R.  Are  they  then  dead  ? 

F.  Ay,  dead ;  entombed  within 

A  glorious  sepulchre,  to  whose  broad  space 
The  world  of  present  things  is  but  an  atom. 
There  they  lie  dead,  and  here  I'd  weep  for  them, 
But  that  I  have  a  fairy  mirror  by  me 
Shows  me  their  spirits,  pale  and  beautiful 
With  a  sweet  mournful  beauty. 

R'  Thou  art  mocking  me  ; 

These  are  but  fancies  thou  art  speaking  of, 
The  incorporeal  children  of  the  brain. 

F.  Aha,  brave  QEdipus  !  my  lady  Sphinx 
Had  stood  in  danger  with  thee.     Hast  thou  guessed 

it? 

These  friends  once  harbored  with  me,  now  departed, 
These  witnesses  to  my  clear  faith  and  fondness, 
They  are  all  thoughts,  all  glorious  thoughts  of  thee, 
Infinite  in  their  number,  bright  as  rainbows, 
And  in  pervading  presence  visitant 
Whenever  I  am  forced  to  be  alone, 
And  losing  thee  to  talk  with  stars  and  streams. 

R.  And,  by  our  Lady,  'tis  a  good  exchange. 


154  SCENE  AT  ROME. 

The    stars    and    streams    are    silent  —  cannot   chide 

thee  — 

Will  let  a  foolish  woman  talk  by  the  hour 
Her  gentle  nonsense,  and  reprove  her  never, 
Nor  with  one  frown  dim  their  ambrosial  smiles ; 
Thou  find'st  not  me  so  easy. 

F.  Still  suspicious ! 

What,  must  I  tell  thee  all  this  day's  employment ; 
Tell  how  I  read  the  heavens  with  curious  glances, 
And  by  a  sort  of  wild  astrology 
Taught  me  by  a  young  god,  whose  name  is  Love, 
But  who  before  all  things  resembles  thee, 
I  tried  to  shape  in  those  high  starry  eyes 
The  very  looks  of  thine  ? 

R.  Nay,  own  Fiammetta, 

If  we  must  needs  have  such  usurping  spirits, 
And  turn  the  bright  heavens  from  the  things  they 

are 

Into  poor  semblances  of  earthly  creatures, 
They  shall  be  all  thine  own  —  take  them  and  wear 

them ; 

Be  thou  the  moon,  the  sunset,  what  thou  wilt 
•So  I  behold  thee. 

F.  I  will  be  the  sky! 

No  narrower  bound  than  its  far  unknown  limit 
SI  Kill  keep  me  prisoner.     Thou  hast  called  me  fair  — 
Often  and  often  on  my  lips  thou  hast  sworn  it  — 


SCENE  AT  ROME.  155 

What  wilt  thou  say  when  thou  shalt  see  me  come 
To  press  thee  in  those  blue  celestial  folds, 
To  gaze  upon  thee  with  a  million  eyes, 
Each  eye  like  these,  and  each  a  fire  of  love  ? 

R.  I  would  not  have  thee  other  than  thou  art, 
Even  in  the  least  complexion  of  a  dimple, 
For  all  the  pictures  Pietro  Perugin, 
My  master,  ever  painted.     And  pardon  me 
I  would  not  have  the  heavens  anything 
But  what  they  are  and  were  and  still  shall  be, 
Despite  thy  wish,  Fiammetta.     'Tis  not  well 
To  make  the  eternal  Beauty  ministrant 
To  our  frail  lives  and  frailer  human  loves. 
Three  thousand  years  perhaps  before  we  lived, 
Some  Eastern  maiden  framed  thy  very  wish, 
And  loved  and  died,  and  in  the  passionless  void 
Vanished  forever.     Yet  this  glorious  Nature 
Took  not  a  thought  of  her,  but  shone  above 
The  blank  she  left,  as  on  the  place  she  filled. 
So  will  it  be  with  us  —  a  dark  night  waits  us  — 
Another  moment,  we  must  plunge  within  it  — 
Let  us  not  mar  the  glimpses  of  pure  Beauty, 
Now  streaming  in  like  moonlight,  with  the  fears, 
The  joys,  the  hurried  thoughts,  that  rise  and  fall 
To  the  hot  pulses  of  a  mortal  heart. 

F.  How  now  ?     Thy  voice  was  wont  to  speak  of 
love : 


156  SCENE  AT  ROME. 

I  shall  not  know  it,  if  its  language  change : 
The  clear,  low  utterance,  and  angelic  tone 
Will  lose  their  music,  if  they  praise  not  love. 
JR.  And  when  I  praise  it  not,  or  cease   to   fold 

thee 

Thus  in  my  arms,  Fiammetta,  may  I  die 
Unwept,  unhonored,  barred  without  the  gate 
Of  that  high  temple,  where  I  minister 
With  daily  ritual  of  colored  lights 
For  candelabras,  and  pure  saintly  forms 
To  image  forth  the  loveliness  I  serve. 
I  did  but  chide  thee  that  thou  minglest  ever 
Beauty  with  beauty,  as  with  perfume  perfume  : 
Thou  canst  not  love  a  rosebud  for  itself, 
But  thinkest  straight  who  gave  that  rose  to  thee  ; 
The  leaping  fountain  minds  thee  of  the  music 
We  heard  together;  and  the  very  heaven, 
The  illimitable  firmament  of  God, 
Must  steal  a  likeness  to  a  Roman  studio 
Ere  it  can  please  thee. 

F.  I  am  a  poor  woman,  sir; 

A  woman,  poor  in  all  things  but  her  heart, 
And  when  I  cease  to  love  I  cease  to  live. 
You  will  not  cure  me  of  this  heresy ; 
Flames    would   not   burn    it   out,   nor   sharp    rocks 

tear  it. 


SCENE  AT  ROME.  157 

R.  I  am  a  merciful  Inquisitor ; 
I  shall  enjoin  thee  but  a  gentle  penance. 

F.  The  culprit  trusts  the  judge,  and  feels  no  fear 
In  his  immediate  presence ;  a  rare  thing 
In  Italy!     Proceed. 

R.  There  was  a  thing 

Thou  askedst  me  this  morning. 

F.  I  remember  — 

To  see  the  picture  thou  hast  kept  from  me. 
I  prithee,  let  me. 

R.  It  shall  be  thy  penance 

To  find  it  full  of  faults,  and  not  one  beauty. 

F.  Where  stands  it? 

R.  There,  behind  the  canopy. 

A  great  Venetian  nobleman,  esteemed 
For  a  good  judge,  they  say,  by  Lionardo, 
Paid  me  a  princely  sum  but  yesterday 
For  this  poor  portrait. 

F.  Portrait  ?  and  of  whom  ? 

Is  it  a  lady? 

R .  Yes  —  a  Roman  lady  — 

About  your  stature  ;  and  her  hair  is  bound 
With  a  pearl  fillet,  even  as  your  own. 
Her  eyes  are  just  Fiammetta's  ;  they  are  turned 
On  a  fair  youth,  who  sits  beside  her,  gazing 
As  he  would  drink  up  all  their  light  in  his. 


158  SCENE  AT  ROME. 

Upon  her  arm  a  bracelet :  and  thereon 
Is  graven 

F.  Name  it! 

R.  RAPHAEL  URBINENSIS. 

F.  This  kiss  —  and  this  —  reward  thee.     Let  me 
see  it 

1832. 


ON  SYMPATHY. 


Is  it  necessary  to  consider  sympathy  as  an  ultimate  principle,  or 
are  there  grounds  for  supposing  it  to  be  generated  by  association 
out  of  primary  pleasures  and  pains? 

|T  was  my  first  intention  to  have 
given  you  an  Essay  on  a  much 
more  copious  subject.  I  wished  to 
detail  the  successive  formations  of  the  virtuous 
affections  from  simple  feelings  of  sympathy, 
and  to  examine  the  true  nature  of  the  moral 
sentiments.  This  is  much  more  interesting 
to  my  mind  than  the  actual  subject  of  the  fol- 
lowing Essay,  but  I  began  with  it,  and  I  had 
not  time  to  get  beyond  it.  The  admission  of 
sympathy  as  an  ultimate  principle  would  not 
invalidate  any  subsequent  conclusions  respecting 
the  virtues  that  arise  out  of  it ;  but  the  contrary 
opinion  will  perhaps  give  so  clear  an  impression 
of  the  great  powers  of  association,  as  to  help 
very  considerably  the  future  investigation.  And 


160  ON  SYMPATHY. 

in  itself  I  think  the  question  a  very  curious  and 
pleasing  one.  Before  I  begin  to  discuss  it,  I 
must  premise  that  the  word  sympathy,  which 
like  most  others  in  moral  science  has  a  fluctu- 
ating import,  is  used  in  tliis  Essay  to  denote 
the  simple  affection  of  the  soul,  by  which  it  is 
pleased  with  another's  pleasure  and  pained  with 
another's  pain,  immediately  and  for  their  own 
sakes. 

Let  us  take  the  soul  at  that  precise  moment 
in  which  she  becomes  assured-  that  another  soul 
exists.  From  tones,  gestures,  and  other  ob- 
jects of  sensation  she  has  inferred  that  exist- 
ence, according  to  the  simplest  rules  of  associa- 
tion. Some  philosophers  indeed  conceive  an 
original  instinct  by  which  we  infer  design,  and 
therefore  mental  existence,  from  the  phenomena 
of  animal  motion,  and  the  expressions  of  voice 
and  countenance.  I  have  no  fondness,  I  con- 
fess, for  these  easy  limitations  of  inquiry,  these 
instincts,  so  fashionable  in  certain  schools,  and 
I  know  not  why  any  new  principle  should  be 
invented  to  account  for  one  of  these  plainest  of 
all  the  associative  processes.  Be  this  as  it  may, 
the  soul,  then,  has  become  aware  of  another 
individual  subject,  capable  of  thoughts  and  feel- 


ON  SYMPATHY.  l6l 

ings  like  her  own.  How  does  this  discovery 
affect  her  ?  It  is  possible  she  may  feel  pleasure 
in  the  mere  knowledge  of  mere  existence  in  this 
other  subject ;  since  it  is  probable  that  pleasure 
is  inherent  in  the  "exercise  of  all  the  soul's  capac- 
ities as  such,  and,  therefore,  the  idea  of  a  new 
similar  set  of  capacities  may  irresistibly  call  up 
the  idea,  and  the  reality  of  pleasure.  For  asso<- 
ciation,  I  need  hardly  observe,  does  not  only 
produce  ideas  of  what  in  the  past  is  similar  to 
the  present,  but  revives  in  many  cases  the  feel- 
ings themselves.  But  as  these  probabilities  are 
rather  of  a  shadowy  complexion,  let  us  move  a 
step  further.  The  person  thus  recognized  by 
the  soul  will  probably  have  been  occupied  in 
acts  of  kindness  towards  it,  by  which  indeed  its 
attention  was  first  attracted  and  the  recogni- 
tion rendered  possible.  Before  that  recogni- 
tion, therefore,  pleasure  has  been  associated 
with  that  person  as  a  mere  object.  The  in- 
fant cannot  separate  the  sensations  of  nourish- 
ment from  the  form  of  his  nurse  or  mother. 
But  the  expressions  of  voice  and  countenance 
in  the  person  conferring  this  or  any  other  pleas- 
ure were  themselves  agreeable,  and  such  as  in- 
dicate internal  pleasure  in  that  person.  So  soon, 
11 


1 62  ON  SYMPATHY. 

therefore,  as  the  infant  makes  the  recognition 
we  spoke  of,  that  is,  assumes  a  conscious  subject 
of  those  expressions,  he  is  competent  to  make  a 
second  assumption,  to  wit,  that  the  looks  and 
tones  in  the  other  being,  which  accompany  his 
own  pleasure,  are  accompanied  at  the  same 
time  by  pleasure  in  that  other.  Hence,  where- 
ever  he  perceives  the  indications  of  another's 
joy,  he  is  prepared  to  rejoice,  and,  by  parity  of 
reasoning,  wherever  he  perceives  indications  of 
pain,  he  is  grieved ;  because  those  painful  ap- 
pearances have  been  connected  by  him  with  the 
absence  of  pleasurable  sensations  to  himself,  or 
even  the  positive  presence  of  painful  ones.  A 
great  step  is  thus  gained  in  the  soul's  progress. 
She  is  immediately  pleased  by  another's  pleas- 
ure, and  pained  by  another's  pain.  Close  upon 
the  experience  of  pleasure  follows  desire.  As 
the  soul  in  its  first  development,  within  the 
sphere  of  itself,  desired  the  recurrence  of  that 
object  which  had  gratified  it,  so  now,  having 
connected  its  pleasure  with  that  of  another,  she 
connects  her  desire  with  his  desire.  So  also 
from  the  correspondence  of  pains  will  arise  a 
correspondence  of  aversions,  by  which  I  mean 
active  dislikes,  the  opposites  of  desire.  Thus 


ON  SYMPATHY.  163 

the  machinery  of  sympathy,  it  might  seem, 
would  be  complete ;  and  since  I  have  exhib- 
ited a  legitimate  process,  by  which  the  soul 
might  arrive  at  a  state  precisely  answering  to 
the  definition  with  which  I  set  out,  you  may 
expect  perhaps  that  the  argument  of  this  Essay 
is  already  terminated.  Indeed  some  philoso- 
phers appear  to  consider  this  a  complete  account 
of  the  matter.  But  when  I  reflect  on  the  pecu- 
liar force  'of  sympathy  itself,  and  the  equivalent 
strength  of  those  reflex  sentiments  regarding  it, 
which  I  shall  come  presently  to  examine,  I  can- 
not but  think  something  more  is  wanted.  It 
seems  to  me  that  several  processes  of  association 
operate  simultaneously  in  the  same  direction,  and 
that  the  united  power  of  all  imparts  a  character 
to  this  portion  of  our  nature,  which  each  taken 
singly  would  not  be  able  to  produce.  Let  us 
again  consider  the  soul  at  the  starting-point, 
where  it  recognizes  a  kindred  being.  The  dis- 
covery is  made,  and  the  soul  dwells  upon  it 
fondly,  wishing  to  justify  its  own  inference,  and 
anxiously  seeking  for  means  of  verification. 
Every  new  expression  of  feeling  in  the  other 
being,  the  object  of  its  contemplation,  becomes 
an  additional  evidence.  The  more  it  can  dis- 


1 64  OAT  SYMPA THY. 

cern  of  pleasure,  the  more  it  becomes  confirmed 
in  its  belief.  I  have  alluded  to  the  probability 
that  every  new  exercise  of  a  new  function,  every 
cliimge  of  state,  is  to  the  soul  an  enjoyment. 
Pain  may  supervene,  but  in  the  nature  of  the 
thing,  to  feel,  to  live,  is  to  enjoy.  Pleasure, 
therefore,  will  be  the  surest  sign  of  life  to  the 
soul.  Hence  there  is  the  strongest  possible  in- 
ducement to  be  pleased  with  those  marks  of 
pleasure  in  another,  which  justify,  as  it  were, 
the  assumed  similarity  of  that  other  to  its  own 
nature.  Marks  of  pain,  in  a  less  degree,  will 
also  be  proofs.  How  then,  I  may  be  asked,  does 
it  happen  we  are  not  pleased  with  the  pain  of 
our  fellow-being?  Because  another  result  of 
association  here  intervenes.  The  sudden  in- 
terruption of  any  train  of  feeling  in  which  the 
mind  acquiesces,  has  a  uniform  tendency  to  dis- 
please and  shock  us.  When  the  perception  of 
suffering  in  another  interferes  with  our  satis- 
faction in  contemplating  him,  and  in  pursuing 
our  process  of  verification,  if  I  may  so  call  it, 
this  contrast  produces  pain.  Besides,  as  the 
image  of  his  enjoyment  recalled  images,  and 
thereby  awoke  realities  of  pleasure  in  ourselves, 
so  the  perception  of  suffering  makes  us  recollect 


ON  SYMPATHY.  165 

our  own  suffering,  and  causes  us  to  suffer.  Thus 
by  a  second  chain  of  associated  feelings,  the 
soiil  arrives  at  the  same  result,  at  union  of  joys 
and  sorrows,  in  other  words,  at  sympathy.  I 
should  remark,  however,  that  compassion  is  not 
unmixed  pain,  and  the  pleasure  mingling  with 
it  may  still  be  legitimately  referred  to  that  as- 
surance of  life,  which  the  marks  of  suffering 
afford.  I  shall  now  proceed  to  a  third  princi- 
ple, from  which  the  same  result  may  be  de- 
duced. This  is  the  principle  of  imitation.  All 
animals  are  imitative.  To  repeat  desires,  voli- 
tions, actions,  is  the  unquestionable  tendency 
of  conscious  beings.  It  was  a  profound  remark 
of  Bishop  Butler,  one  of  those  anticipations  of 
philosophic  minds  which  are  pregnant  with 
theories,  that  perhaps  the  same  simple  power 
in  the  mind  which  disposes  our  actions  to  habit- 
ual courses,  may  be  sufficient  to  account  for  the 
phenomena  of  memory.  This  is  a  very  deep 
subject ;  and  when  we  remember  that  the  sphere 
of  imitation  is  not  confined  to  human,  or  even 
animal  exertions,  but  appears  to  be  coextensive 
with  organic  life,  we  have  reason  to  be  cautious 
in  dealing  with  this  principle.  So  far,  however, 
as  it  applies  to  our  desires,  there  seems  ground 


1 66  ON  SYMPATHY. 

for  supposing  that  the  soul  may  desire  another's 
gratification  from  the  same  impulse  that  leads 
a  monkey  to  mimic  the  gestures  of  a  man. 
Novelty  is  in  itself  an  evident  source  of  pleas- 
ure. To  become  something  new,  to  add  a 
mode  of  being  to  those  we  have  experienced, 
is  a  temptation  alike  to  the  lisping  infant  in  the 
cradle  and  the  old  man  on  the  verge  of  the  grave. 
This  may  partly  arise  from  that  essential  in- 
herence of  pleasure  in  every  state  to  which  I 
have  alluded,  partly  from  a  pleasure  of  contrast 
and  surprise  felt  by  the  soul  on  gaining  a  new 
position.  Now  nothing  can  be  more  new  than 
such  a  foreign  capacity  of  enjoyment  as  the  soul 
has  here  discovered.  To  become  this  new  thing, 
to  imitate,  in  a  word,  the  discovered  agent,  no 
less  in  the  internal  than  the  outward  elements 
of  action,  will  naturally  be  the  endeavor  of  fac- 
ulties already  accustomed  in  their  own  develop- 
ment to  numberless  courses  of  imitation.  For 
we  imitate  our  previous  acts  in  order  to  estab- 
lish our  very  earliest  knowledge.  Through  the 
medium  of  imitation  alone,  automatic  notions  be- 
come voluntary.  It  is  then  possible  that  through 
the  desire  to  feel  as  another  feels,  we  may  come 
to  feel  so. 


ON  SYMPATHY.  167 

I  know  not  whether  I  have  succeeded  in  stat- 
ing with  tolerable  clearness  these  three  processes 
by  which  I  conceive  the  association  principle  to 
operate  in  the  production  of  sympathy.  The 
number,  however,  is  not  yet  exhausted,  and 
those  that  remain  to  be  described  are  perhaps 
more  important,  and  will  carry  us  more  to  the 
bottom  of  the  matter,  although  for  this  very 
reason  it  will  be  difficult  to  avoid  some  obscu- 
rity in  speaking  of  them.  Some  of  you,  per- 
haps, may  be  disposed  to  set  me  down  as  a 
mystic,  for  what  I  am  about  to  say ;  just  as 
some  of  you  may  have  despised  me  as  a  mechan- 
ist, or  a  materialist,  on  account  of  what  I  have 
said  already.  In  one  and  the  other,  however, 
I  proceed  upon  tangible  facts,  or  upon  proba- 
bilities directly  issuing  out  of  such  facts.  It  is 
an  ultimate  fact  of  consciousness,  that  the  soul 
exists  as  one  subject  in  various  successive  states. 
Our  belief  in  this  is  the  foundation  of  all  rea- 
soning. Far  back  as  memory  can  carry  us,  or 
far  forward  as  anticipation  can  travel  unre- 
strained, the  remembered  state  in  the  one  case, 
and  the  imagined  one  in  the  other,  are  forms  of 
self.  With  the  first  dawn  of  feeling  began  the 
conception  of  existence,  distinct  from  that  of 


1 68  ON  SYMPATHY. 

the  moment  in  which  the  conception  arose  : 
hope,  desire,  apprehension,  aversion,  soon  made 
the  soul  live  entirely  in  reference  to  things  non- 
existent. But  what  were  these  things  ?  Pos- 
sible conditions  of  the  soul,  —  the  same  undivided 
soul  which  existed  in  the  conception  and  desire 
of  them.  Wide,  therefore,  as  that  universe 
might  be,  which  comprehended  for  the  -imagi- 
nation all  varieties  of  untried  consciousness,  it 
was  no  wTider  than  that  self  which  imagined  it. 
Material  objects  were  indeed  perceived  as  ex- 
ternal. But  how  ?  As  unknown  limits  of  the 
soul's  activity,  they  were  not  a  part  of  subjec- 
tive consciousness,  they  defined,  restrained,  and 
regulated  it.  Still  the  soul  attributed  itself  to 
every  consciousness,  past  or  future.  At  length 
the  discovery  of  another  being  is  made.  Another 
being,  another  subject,  conscious,  having  a  world 
of  feelings  like  the  soul's  own  world !  How, 
how  can  the  soul  imagine  feeling  which  is  not 
its  own  ?  I  repeat,  she  realizes  this  -conception 
only  by  considering  the  other  being  as  a  sepa- 
rate part  of  self,  a  state  of  her  own  consciousness 
existing  apart  from  the  present,  just  as  imagined 
states  exist  in  the  future.  Thus  absorbing,  if 
I  may  speak  so,  this  other  being  into  her  uni- 


ON  SYMPATHY.  169 

versal  nature,  the  soul  transfers  at  once  her  own 
feelings  and  adopts  those  of  the  new-comer.  It 
is  very  possible  there  may  be  nothing  in  this 
notion  of  mine,  which  I  doubt  not  many  of  you 
will  think  too  refined.  But  it  seems  to  deserve 
attentive  consideration.  The  force  of  it  lies  in 
a  supposed  difficulty  attending  the  structure  of 
our  consciousness  ;  a  difficulty  of  conceiving  any 
existence,  except  in  the  way  of  matter,  external 
to  the  conceiving  mind.  It  may  be  objected, 
however,  that  this  conjectural  explanation  is  after 
all  no  explanation,  since  it  can  only  account  for 
an  interest  taken  in  the  other  being,  but  not  for 
a  coalition  of  pleasures  or  pains.  The  supposed 
identification  is  not  assuredly  closer  than  that 
which  exists  between  the  past  and  the  present 
in  ourselves,  yet  how  often  does  our  actual  self 
desire  different  objects  from  those  which  allured 
us  in  a  previous  condition !  The  objection  is 
weighty,  but  let  us  see  what  may  be  said  against 
it.  The  soul,  we  have  seen,  exists  as  one  per- 
manent subject  of  innumerable  successive  states. 
But  not  only  is  there  unity  of  subject,  there  is 
likewise  a  tendency  to  unity  of  form.  The  order 
of  nature  is  uniform  under  the  sway  of  invaria- 
ble laws,  the  same  phenomena  perpetually  recur. 


17°  ON  SYMPATHY. 

And  there  is  a  preestablished  harmony  in  mind 
by  which  it  anticipates  this  uniformity.  I  do 
not  imagine  any  original  principle  distinct  from 
association  is  necessary  to  account  for  this  fact. 
But  a  fact  it  is,  and  the  foundation  of  all  induc- 
tive judgments.  The  soul  naturally  takes  a 
great  pleasure  in  this  expectation  of  sameness, 
so  perpetually  answered,  and  affording  scope  for 
the  development  of  all  faculties,  and  all  domin- 
ion over  surrounding  things.  Thus  a  wish  for 
complete  uniformity  will  arise  wherever  a  simi- 
larity of  any  kind  is  observed.  But  a  still  deeper 
feeling  is  caused  by  that  immediate  knowledge 
of  the  past  which  is  supplied  by  memory.  To 
know  a  thing  as  past,  and  to  know  it  as  similar 
to  something  present,  is  a  source  of  mingled 
emotions.  There  is  pleasure,  in  so  far  as  it  is  a 
revelation  of  self;  but  there  is  pain,  in  so  far  that 
it  is  a  divided  self,  a  being  at  once  our  own  and 
not  our  own,  a  portion  cut  away  from  what  we 
feel,  nevertheless,  to  be  single  and  indivisible.  I 
fear  these  expressions  will  be  thought  to  border 
on  mysticism.  Yet  I  must  believe  that  if  any 
one,  in  the  least  accustomed  to  analyze  his  feel- 
ings, will  take  the  pains  to  reflect  on  it,  he  may 
remember  moments  in  which  the  burden  of  this 


ON  SYMPATHY.  1JI 

mystery  has  lain  heavy  on  him ;  in  which  he  has 
felt  it  miserable  to  exist,  as  it  were,  piece-meal, 
and  in  the  continual  flux  of  a  stream ;  in  which 
he  has  wondered,  as  at  a  new  thing,  how  we  can 
be,  and  have  been,  and  not  be  that  which  we 
have  been.  But  the  yearnings  of  the  human 
soul  for  the  irrecoverable  past  are  checked  by  a 
stern  knowledge  of  impossibility.  So  also  in  its 
eager  rushings  towards  the  future,  its  desire  of 
that  mysterious  something  which  now  is  not,  but 
which  in  another  minute  we  shall  be,  the  soul 
is  checked  by  a  lesson  of  experience,  which 
teaches  her  that  she  cannot  cany  into  that  fu- 
ture the  actual  mode  of  her  existence.  But 
were  these  impossibilities  removed,  were  it  con- 
ceivable that  the  soul  in  one  state  should  co- 
exist with  the  soul  in  another,  how  impetuous 
would  be  that  desire  of  reunion,  which  even 
the  awful  laws  of  time  cannot  entirely  forbid! 
The  cause  you  will  say  is  inconceivable.  Not 
so ;  it  is  the  very  case  before  us.  The  soul,  we 
have  seen,  contemplates  a  separate  being  as  a 
separate  state  of  itself,  the  only  being  it  can 
conceive.  But  the  two  exist  simultaneously. 
Therefore  that  impetuous  desire  arises.  There- 
fore, in  her  anxiety  to  break  down  all  obstacles, 


172  ON  SYMPATHY. 

and  to  amalgamate  two  portions  of  her  divided 
substance,  she  will  hasten  to  blend  emotions  and 
desires  with  those  apparent  in  the  kindred  spirit. 
I  request  it  may  be  considered  whether  these 
two  circumstances,  to  wit,  the  anticipation  of 
uniformity  natural  to  the  soul,  and  the  melan- 
choly pleasure  occasioned  by  the  idea  of  time, 
are  not  sufficient  to  remove  the  objection  started 
above,  and  finally,  whether  this  notion  of  the 
soul's  identifying  the  perceived  being  with  her- 
self may  not  be  thought  to  have  some  weight, 
especially  when  such  identification  is  relied  upon 
as  a  concurrent  cause  with  the  others  first 
spoken  of. 

Before  I  proceed  to  examine  what  consequen- 
ces such  a  passion  as  sympathy  might  be  ex- 
pected to  have  in  the  mind,  and  how  far  those 
consequences,  as  predicted  from  a  general  knowl- 
edge of  the  workings  of  association,  are  in  con- 
formity with  the  actual  constitution  of  our  minds, 
it  may  be  well  to  make  one  remark  as  to  the 
character  of  the  system  I  have  been  explaining. 
That  system  asserts  the  absolute  disinterested- 
ness of  sympathy.  It  is,  as  I  understand  it,  no 
modification  of  the  selfish  theory.  It  has,  how- 
ever, been  so  represented,  and  I  must  allow 


ON  SYMPATHY.  173 

there  is  a  strong  prima  facie  appearance  of  its 
being  so,  owing  to  the  fallacies  of  language. 
The  selfish  theory  denies  the  disinterested  na- 
ture of  affection  on  grounds  which  prove,  if  any- 
thing, the  absolute  impossibility  of  disinterest- 
edness, at  least  in  any  shape  conceivable  by  a 
human  intellect.  What  would  be  the  correct 
inference  from  such  a  proof?  Simply  this,  that 
the  theorists  are  using  words  in  a  different  sense 
from  the  common,  and  applying  them  to  a  dis- 
tinction which  never  came  in  question,  not  to 
that  real  and  broad  distinction  which  those  words 
designate  for  common  understandings.  But  is 
this  the  inference  really  drawn  by  these  phil- 
osophers ?  No,  so  it  would  make  no  theory. 
Either  with  a  strange  inconsistency  they  make 
use  of  their  principle  to  depreciate  mankind, 
thus  recognizing  in  fact  the  possibility  and  nat- 
uralness of  what  they  pronounce  impossible  and 
unnatural,  or  they  employ  it  to  narrow  the  in- 
terval between  vice  and  virtue  and  to  weaken 
the  authority  of  the  moral  sentiments.  Neither 
of  these  defects  is  fairly  chargeable  on  the  sys- 
tem I  have  recommended.  What  is  the  true 
distinction,  according  to  common  language  and 
common  feeling,  between  selfish  and  unselfish  ? 


174  ON  SYMPATHY. 

Certainly  this :  that  the  object  of  the  first  is 
one's  own  gratification,  the  object  of  the  second 
is  the  gratification  of  another.  The  difference 
of  names  arises  from  the  difference  of  objects 
recognized  by  the  understanding.  It  relates  en- 
tirely to  a  single  act  of  the  soul,  taken  in  and 
by  itself,  limited  by  its  object,  and  not  at  all 
considered  in  reference  to  its  origin  or  its  con- 
sequence. To  require  that  pleasure  should  not 
have  preceded  this  act  so  as  to  render  it  pos- 
sible, or  that  pleasure  should  not  inhere  in  the 
subjective  part  of  this  act  so  as  to  cause  a  sub- 
sequent reflex  sentiment,  is  to  require  what  the 
understanding  assuredly  never  required,  when 
it  separated  the  class  of  selfish  from  that  of 
unselfish  sentiments.  But  I  may  be  told  that 
the  view  I  have  taken  of  sympathy,  as  origi- 
nating in  an  adoption  of  the  other  being  into 
self,  is  quite  incompatible  with  the  disinter- 
ested character.  If  a  conscious  agent  can  only 
be  imagined  as  a  separate  and  coexistent  part  of 
self,  is  it  not  obvious  all  love  not  only  springs 
from,  but  is  in  itself  a  modification  of,  self- 
love?  For  here  the  object  is  the  same  as  the 
subject :  and  though  the  logical  distinction  men- 
tioned may  be  a  good  justification  of  the  com- 


ON  SYMPATHY.  175 

mon  use  of  the  words,  it  is  no  reason  against 
a  strict  philosophical  acceptation  of  them  at 
proper  times  and  places.  Now  I  cannot  object 
to  this  argument  in  toto.  That  is,  I  admit  that 
if  the  view  I  took  of  the  origin  of  sympathy 
was  correct,  all  love  is,  in  one  sense,  a  modifi- 
cation of  self-love.  Nor  do  I  deny  that  self- 
love  is  perhaps  as  good  a  term  to  express  this 
meaning  as  a  philosopher  could  expect  to  find 
at  his  disposal.  But  I  deny  altogether  that  this 
philosophical  sense  of  the  term  has  anything  to 
do  with  the  usual  signification  of  self-love,  or 
with  the  words  interest,  disinterested,  selfish, 
and  the  like.  Nay,  there  is  another  important 
portion  of  human  nature  to  which  some  re- 
cent philosophers  have  wished  to  confine  these 
phrases.  Popularly  speaking,  every  feeling  is  sel- 
fish, or  springs  from  self-love,  which  regards  our 
own  gratification  as  its  end.  But  the  philoso- 
phers I  allude  to  wish  to  remove  these  words 
to  the  vacant  office  of  designating,  not  our 
particular  desires  and  passions  seeking  their 
own  gratification,  but  that  more  general  desire 
for  general  well-being  which  arises  out  of  those 
particular  desires,  and  could  not  have  subsisted 
without  their  precedence.  This  is  what  Hart- 


176  ON  SYMPATHY. 

ley  calls  "  rational  self-interest "  :  Butler,  if  I 
mistake  not,  "  cool  self-love,"  and  Mackintosh, 
"  desire  of  happiness."  It  is  easy  to  prove  that 
this  passion  is  not  entitled  to  those  lofty  pre- 
rogative rights,  which  in  common  parlance  are 
often  attributed  to  self-love  and  the  desire  of 
happiness.  When  Pascal  says  "  it  is  to  gain 
happiness  that  a  man  hangs  himself,"  it  is  easy 
to  show  that  if  by  "  happiness "  he  intended 
"the  greatest  possible  well-being,"  nothing  can 
be  more  absurd  and  untrue  than  the  assertion. 
We  hang  ourselves  to  get  rid  of  present  un- 
easiness, not  with  a  view  to  permanent  welfare. 
But  it  may  surely  be  permitted  to  doubt  whether 
Pascal  meant  any  such  nonsense  as  the  refuta- 
tion supposes.  However  this  may  be,  I  think 
I  have  said  enough  to  show,  that  in  this  accep- 
tation of  the  word  self-love,  the  act  of  sympa- 
thy has  nothing  to  do  with  it.  Our  desire  of 
our  neighbor's  pleasure,  our  grief  for  his  pain, 
are  immediate  passions  acting  upon  an  imme- 
diate object,  and  having  no  reference  to  the 
means  of  establishing  an  ultimate  balance  of 
pleasures  to  ourselves.  As  to  the  popular  sense, 
I  have  already  shown  that  the  term  selfish  is 
confined  to  that  class  of  desires  which  are  not 


ON  SYMPATHY.  177 

excited  by  the  idea  of  another's  gratification. 
The  distinction  is  in  the  nature  of  what  the 
exciting  idea  represents,  not  in  the  mode  of 
its  rising,  or  the  reasons  of  its  efficiency.  Now, 
although  I  have  supposed  it  possible  that  the 
conception  of  a  distinct  conscious  agent  must 
pass  through  a  process  of  imagination  and  feel- 
ing before  it  can  be  sufficiently  realized  to  have 
any  hold  upon  us,  I  must  not  be  so  misunder- 
stood as  to  be  thought  to  deny  the  intellect- 
ual conception  itself.  It  is  because  the  intel- 
lect apprehends  another  agent,  that  this  process 
may  take  place,  not  because  it  is  incapable  of 
such  apprehension.  I  hold  therefore  that  the 
notions  here  laid  down  concerning  the  compo- 
sition of  sympathy  are  not  liable  to  the  fatal 
accusation  of  being  incompatible  with  the  dis- 
interested character  of  the  affections,  in  any 
sense  at  least  which  can  have  a  bearing  upon 
practice.  But  I  think  it  still  a  curious  specu- 
lative question,  whether  there  is  not  a  species 
of  self-love  of  a  very  primary  formation,  an- 
terior indeed  to  everything  in  the  soul  (con- 
sidered as  the  subject  of  feeling)  except  the 
susceptibility  of  pleasure  and  pain.  And  I 
have  my  doubts  whether  the  vast  concourse 
12 


ijS  ON  SYMPATHY. 

of  writers  who  speak  of  some  such  principle 
are  fairly  open,  otherwise  than  through  the 
imperfections  and  entanglements  of  language, 
to  the  impeachment  of  those  modern  reform- 
ers, who  choose  to  restrain  the  words  on  which 
the  debate  turns  to  a  different,  a  limited,  though 
I  admit  an  important,  part  of  our  nature. 

It  was  my  intention  to  have  continued  tliis 
Essay  so  as  to  exhibit  the  rise  and  progress  of 
those  pains  and  pleasures,  aversions  and  de- 
sires, which  arise  in  the  soul  in  consequence 
of  sympathy,  and  whose  peculiar  force  I  should 
have  shown  to  depend  on  the  peculiar  powers 
of  the  several  feelings  composing  sympathy. 
These  may  be  comprised  under  the  terms  re- 
morse and  moral  satisfaction,  or  any  equiva- 
lent, there  being  no  single  word.  I  should 
then  have  detailed  the  gradual  generation  of 
the  virtues  from  the  primary  feelings  of  sym- 
pathy, taking  for  my  guide  the  principle  of 
association.  I  should  have  shown  gratitude, 
resentment,  justice,  veracity,  inevitably  result- 
ing from  combinations  of  the  primary  pleasures 
and  pains  with  their  offspring,  sympathy,  and 
with  those  reflex  sentiments  which  regard  it. 
I  should  have  shown  these  sentiments  over- 


ON  SYMPATHY.  179 

shadowing  the  generated  affections  as  they  had 
protected  the  parent  one,  and  acquiring  at  every 
step  additional  force  and  authority.  I  should 
have  attempted  to  prove  that  moral  approba- 
tion and  blame  are  not  applied  to  agents  and 
actions  unconnected  with  ourselves  in  virtue 
of  any  faculty  of  approving  or  any  realist  ideas 
of  Right  and  Wrong,  but  by  a  simple  exten- 
sion of  sympathy,  strengthened  as  that  pas- 
sion has  become  by  the  reaction  of  all  the 
secondary  affections,  according  to  the  obvious 
nature  of  association.  I  should  have  spoken 
of  the  self-regarding  virtues,  temperance,  for- 
titude, prudence,  and  explained  how  far  they 
come  under  the  jurisdiction  of  the  reflex  senti- 
ments. Finally,  I  should  have  endeavored  to 
express  how  sympathy  receives  its  final  con- 
summation, and  the  moral  sentiments  their 
strongest  sanction,  from  the  aid  of  religion, 
the  power  which  binds  over  again  (religare, 
according  to  some,  is  the  etymology  of  the 
word)  wThat  the  bond  of  nature  was  unable 
adequately  to  secure.  But  these  considerations 
I  must  leave  to  some  other  and  more  favora- 
ble opportunity. 


ORATION 


THE  INFLUENCE  OP  ITALIAN  WORKS  OF  IMAGINATION  ON  THE 
SAME  CLASS  OF  COMPOSITIONS  IN  ENGLAND. 

DELIVERED  IN  TRINITY  COLLEGE  CHAPEL, 
December  16,  1831. 


fHERE  is  in  the  human  mind  a  remark- 
able habit,  which  leads  it  to  prefer  in 
most  cases  the  simple  to  the  composite, 
and  to  despise  a  power  acquired  by  combination 
in  comparison  with  one  original,  and  produced 
from  unmixed  elements.  Doubtless  some  good 
motives  have  had  a  share  in  forming  this  hab- 
it, but  I  suspect  pride  is  answerable  for  nine 
tenths  of  the  formation ;  especially  when  any- 
thing immediately  belonging  to  ourselves  is  the 
circumstance  for  which  our  curiosity  requires  an 
origin.  Wherever  we  trace  a  continued  series 
of  ascending  causes,  we  can  hardly  escape  the 
conviction  of  our  insignificance  and  entire  de- 


ITALIAN   WORKS  OF  IMAGINATION.    l8l 

pendence  :  but  if  by  any  accident  the  chain  is 
broken,  if  we  see  darkness  beyond  a  particular 
link,  we  find  it  easy,  and  think  it  fine,  to  flatter 
ourselves  into  a  belief  of  having  found  a  begin- 
ning, and  the  nearer  we  bring  it  down  to  our- 
selves the  better  satisfied  we  remain.  Traces 
of  this  prejudice  may  be  observed  in  every  walk 
of  intellect :  philosophy,  as  might  be  expected, 
has  been  the  greatest  sufferer  ;  but  criticism,  his- 
tory, and  the  whole  province  of  Belles  Lettres, 
have  been  visited  in  their  turn.  One  of  its  most 
amusing  forms  is  to  be  found  in  those  writers, 
less  honest  than  patriotic,  who  are  ready  to  in- 
vent a  world  of  lies,  for  the  pragmatical  purpose 
of  showing  the  aboriginal  distinctness  of  their 
national  literature,  and  its  complete  indepen- 
dence of  the  provision  of  any  other  languages. 
They  seem  to  imagine,  that  if  they  once  prove 
the  nations  of  the  earth  to  have  grown,  like  a 
set  of  larches,  each  in  its  unbending  perpen- 
dicular, and  never  encroaching  on  the  measured 
interval  that  separates  it  from  its  neighbor,  they 
have  erected  "  monumentum  sere  perennius  "  to 
the  character  of  human  society.  But  widely  dif- 
ferent from  their  fancy  is  the  method  of  nature. 
Far  more  sublime  is  that  process  by  which  the 


1 82    ORATION  ON  THE  INFLUENCE   OF 

few  original  elements  of  society  are  dashed  and 
mingled  with  one  another,  serving  forever  and 
coalescing  within  a  crucible  of  incessant  opera- 
tion, and  producing  at  each  successive  point  new 
combinations,  which  again,  as  simple  substances, 
are  made  subservient  to  the  prospective  direction 
of  the  Great  observant  Mind.  Is  it  wonderful 
that,  for  the  collection  of  comforts  and  luxuries, 
the  spirit  of  commercial  enterprise  has  levelled 
the  barriers  of  countries,  and  triumphed  over  the 
immensity  of  ocean  ?  And  have  we  no  admira- 
tion in  reserve  for  that  commerce  of  mind,  which 
has  continued  as  it  commenced,  without  the  fore- 
thought or  intention  of  man,  silently  working, 
but  unerringly,  abating  distances,  uniting  pe- 
riods, harmonizing  the  most  opposed  thoughts, 
bringing  the  fervid  meditations  of  the  East  to 
bear  upon  the  rapid  reason  of  the  West,  the 
stormy  Northern  temper  to  give  and  receive 
alteration  from  voluptuous  languors  of  the  Me- 
ridian ?  Surely  the  consideration  of  this  uni- 
versal and  always  progressive  movement  should 
make  us  examine  the  component  parts  of  any 
national  literature  with  no  exclusive  and  limited 
feeling  (for  the  literature  of  a  people  is  the  ex- 
pression of  its  character),  and  to  ascertain,  by 


ITALIAN   WORKS   OF  IMAGINATION.  183 

correct  analysis,  the  number  and  relative  propor- 
tion of  its  elements ;  to  decide,  by  the  applica- 
tion of  history,  from  what  juncture  in  social 
progress  each  particular  complexion  of  sentiment 
has  its  origin,  what  is  this  but  to  become  a  spec- 
tator of  new  scenes  in  the  Providential  drama : 
and  with  what  feelings  but  those  of  reverence 
and  a  sense  of  beauty  should  their  harmonious 
variety  be  contemplated  ?  Nor  is  this  pleasure 
the  peculiar  portion  of  the  speculative  and  se- 
cluded ;  it  may  be  relished  by  all  who  have  the 
advantage  of  a  liberal  education ;  it  may  be 
freshly  drawn  from  the  most  obvious  books,  and 
even  the  common  parlance  of  conversation ;  for 
we  need  only  look  to  the  different  aspects  of 
language  to  be  perpetually  reminded  of  those 
divers  influences  by  which  the  national  charac- 
ter has  been  modified.  I  open  at  hazard  a  vol- 
ume of  Shakspeare,  and  I  take  for  an  instance 
the  first  passage  that  occurs  :  — 

"  That  man  that  sits  within  a  monarch's  heart 
And  ripens  in  the  sunshine  of  his  favor, 
Would  he  abuse  the  countenance  of  the  king, 
Alack,  what  mischiefs  might  be  set  abroach 
In  shadow  of  such  greatness !     With  j-ou,  Lord  Bishop, 
It  is  even  so;  who  hath  not  heard  it  spoken, 
How  deep  you  were  within  the  books  of  God, 


1 84   ORATION  ON  THE  INFLUENCE   OF 

To  us  the  Speaker  in  his  Parliament, 
To  us  the  imagined  voice  of  God  himself? 
The  very  opener  and  intelligencer 
Between  the  grace,  the  sanctities  of  heaven, 
And  our  dull  workings;  oh  who  shall  believe 
But  you  misuse  the  reverence  of  your  place, 
Employ  the  countenance  and  grace  of  heaven, 
As  a  false  favorite  doth  his  prince's  name, 
In  deeds  dishonorable?" 

Henry  IV.,  P.  II.,  A.  iv.,  S.  2. 

In  these  lines  (sixteen  in  number)  we  shall 
find  twenty-two  words  of  Roman  formation,  and 
but  twenty-one  (excluding  connective  words)  of 
Teutonic.  Of  the  former,  again,  five  are  proper 
to  French  ;  the  rest  having  probably  passed 
through  the  medium  of  that  language,  but  de- 
rived from  a  classical  source.  Among  the  last, 
one  only  is  Greek ;  the  others  bear  the  imperial 
stamp  of  Rome.  The  whole  is  a  beautiful  speci- 
men of  pure  English,  and  falls  with  complete, 
easy,  uniform  effect  on  the  ear  and  mind.  In 
this  instance,  and  probably  in  any  other  we 
should  select  from  the  great  master,  the  equi- 
poise of  southern  and  northern  phraseology  cre- 
ates a  natural  harmony,  a  setting  of  full  bass  to 
keen  treble,  to  destroy  which  altogether  would 
be  one  inevitable  consequence  of  altering  the 
proportion  of  these  two  elements.  And  is  it  not 


ITALIAN  WORKS  OF  IMAGINATION.    185 

a  noble  thing,  that  the  English  tongue  is,  as  it 
were,  the  common  focus  and  point  of  union  to 
which  opposite  beauties  converge  ?     Is  "it  a  trifle 
that  we  temper  energy  with  softness,  strength 
with  flexibility,  capaciousness  of  sound  with  pli- 
ancy of  idiom  ?      Some,  I  know,   insensible  to 
these  virtues,  and  ambitious  of  I  know  not  what 
unattainable   decomposition,   prefer  to  utter  fu- 
neral praises  over  the  grave  of  departed  Anglo- 
Saxon,  or,  starting  with  convulsive  shudder,  are 
ready  to  leap  from  surrounding  Latinisms  into 
the  kindred,  sympathetic  arms  of  modern  Ger- 
man.    For  myself,  I  neither  share  their  regret 
nor  their  terror.    Willing  at  all  times  to  pay  filial 
homage  to  the  shades  of  Hengist  and  Horsa,  and 
to  admit  they  have  laid  the  base  of  our  com- 
pound language  ;  or,  if  you  will,  have  prepared 
the  soil  from  which  the  chief  nutriment  of  the 
goodly  tree,  our  British  oak,  must  be  derived; 
I  am  yet  proud  to  confess  that  I  look  with  senti- 
ments   more    exulting  and   more   reverential   to 
the  bonds  by  which  the  law  of  the  universe  has 
fastened  me  to  my  distant  brethren  of  the  same 
Caucasian  race  ;   to  the  privileges  which  I,  an 
inhabitant  of  the  gloomy  North,  share  in  com- 
mon with  climates  imparadised  in  perpetual  sum- 


l86    ORATION  ON  THE  INFLUENCE  OF 

mer,  to  the  universality  and  efficacy  resulting 
from  blended  intelligence,  which,  while  it  en- 
dears in  our  eyes  the  land  of  our  fathers  as  a 
seat  of  peculiar  blessing,  tends  to  elevate  and 
expand  our  thoughts  into  communion  with  hu- 
manity at  large ;  and,  in  the  "  sublimer  spirit " 
of  the  poet,  to  make  us  feel 

"  That  God  is  everywhere  —  the  God  who  framed 
Mankind  to  be  one  mighty  family, 
Himself  our  Father,  and  the  world  our  home." 

However  surely  the  intercourse  of  words  may 
indicate  a  corresponding  mixture  of  sentiment, 
yet  these  variations  of  expression  are  far  from 
being  a  complete  measure  of  the  interior  changes. 
Man  is  a  great  talker,  but  how  small  the  propor- 
tion of  what  he  says  to  the  ever-shifting  condi- 
tion of  his  mental  existence  !  It  is  necessary  to 
look  abroad,  and  gather  in  evidence  from  events, 
if  we  would  form  a  reasonable  conjecture  how 
much  we  stand  indebted  to  any  one  country  for 
our  literary  glories,  and  for  that  spirit  which  not 
only  produced  them,  but  in  some  measure,  since 
we  are  Englishmen,  circulates  through  ourselves. 
I  propose,  therefore,  to  make  a  few  observations 
on  that  peculiar  combination  of  thought,  which 
resulted  from  the  intercourse  of  Italian  writers 


ITALIAN  WORKS  OF  IMAGINATION.    187 

with  our  own :  first,  about  the  time  the  House 
of  Lancaster  began  to  reign,  the  period  of  Chau- 
cer ;  and,  secondly,  at  that  magnificent  era  of 
genius,  when  the  names  of  Hooker,  Shakspeare, 
and  Bacon  attest  how  much,  under  the  auspices 
of  the  Protestant  Queen,  was  effected  for  the 
sacred  ideas  of  the  good,  the  beautiful,  and  the 
true.  The  first  point  to  be  considered  is  the 
real  character  of  Italian  literature  ;  for  we  can- 
not measure  its  effect  until  we  know  its  capacity. 
That  language  then,  I  may  observe,  a  chosen 
vessel  of  some  of  the  most  glorious  thoughts  with 
which  our  frail  nature  has  been  inspired,  was 
the  last  and  most  complete  among  the  several 
tongues  that  arose  out  of  the  confusion  of  north- 
ern barbarians  with  their  captives  of  the  con- 
quered empire.  For  a  long  time  after  that  signal 
revolution,  the  municipal  spirit,  which  kept  the 
inhabitants  of  one  town  distinct  from  those  of 
another,  as  regards  marriages,  social  intercourse, 
and  the  whole  train  of  ordinary  life,  prevented 
the  various  patois,  included  under  the  general 
name  of  Romane,  from  coalescing  into  regular 
languages.  The  mandates  of  government,  the 
decisions  of  law,  the  declarations  of  religion, 
whatever  was  in  its  nature  more  important,  and 


1 88    ORATION  ON  THE  INFLUENCE   OF 

was  intended  to  coerce  a  larger  aggregate :  these 
were  by  general  custom  reserved  to  Latin, —  bar- 
barous indeed,  and  as  inelegant  as  impure,  but 
still  Latin  in  the  main,  and  distinguishable  by  a 
broad  line  from  the  dialects  that  swarmed  in  the 
villages.  The  few  wretched  attempts  at  poetry 
that  occasionally  occur  in  this  period  of  utter 
darkness,  are  always  in  a  Latin  form  ;  and  the 
fact  that  this  is  true  even  of  soldiers'  ballads,  is 
decisive  as  to  the  extreme  infantine  weakness  of 
those  forms  of  speech,  which  were  so  soon  to 
arise  from  their  illiterate  and  base  condition,  to 
express  in  voices  of  thunder  and  music  the  wants 
and  tendencies  of  a  new  civilization,  and  to  ani- 
mate with  everlasting  vigor  the  intellect  of  man- 
kind. At  length,  however,  after  five  centuries 
of  preparatory  ignorance,  the  flame  burst  from 
beneath  the  ashes,  never  again  to  be  overcome. 
About  the  same  time,  in  different  parts  of  France, 
a  distinct,  serviceable,  and  capacious  fonn  was 
assumed  by  the  Provencal  and  Roman  Wallon, 
or,  as  they  are  usually  called,  the  Langue  d'Oc 
and  Langue  d'Oil.  The  former  especially  began 
to  offer  the  phenomenon  of  a  new  literature,  de- 
pendent for  nothing  on  monastic  erudition,  but 
fresh  from  the  workings  of  untaught  nature,  im- 


ITALIAN  WORKS  OF  IMAGINATION.    189 

pressed  with  the  stamp  of  existing  manners,  and 
reacting  upon  them  by  exciting  the  imagination, 
and  directing  the  feelings  of  the  people.  A 
thousand  poets  sprang  up,  as  at  an  enchanter's 
call ;  the  distinctions  of  rank  and  wealth  were 
levelled  by  this  more  honorable  ambition  ;  many 
were  the  proud  feudal  barons,  who  struck  the 
minstrel  lyre  with  emulative,  often  with  trium- 
phant, touch  ;  nor  few  were  the  gallant  princes, 
who  sought  in  "  lou  gai  saber  "  the  solace  of  their 
cares,  and  the  refinement  of  their  martial  tem- 
pers. Frederic  Barbarossa !  Richard  of  England ! 
These  at  the  head  of  the  list,  who  could  think 
it  a  disgrace  to  follow  ?  After  these,  it  is  almost 

O  ' 

idle  to  reckon  up  other  royal  poets,  —  Alfonso 
and  Pedro  of  Arragon,  Frederic  of  Sicily,  the 
King  of  Tbessalonica,  the  Marquis  de  Mont- 
ferrat,  the  Dauphin  of  Auvergne,  the  Prince  of 
Orange, —  all  were  anxious  "  de  trouver  genti- 
ment  en  vers,"  and  some,  we  are  assured,  showed 
their  preeminence  of  merit.  In  proportion  to 
the  development  of  Romane  literature,  the  char- 
acteristics of  the  romantic  spirit  became  more 
distinct.  These  may  be  arranged  under  -four 
classes,  constituting  the  four  great  elements  of 
modern  civilization :  Christianity,  as  preserved 


1 90    ORATION  ON  THE  INFLUENCE   OF 

in  Catholicism;  the  Teutonic  principle,  animat- 
ing the  Northern  countries  immediately,  the 
Southern  less  directly,  and  less  forcibly  through 
the  invasion  of  the  barbarians ;  the  Roman,  of 
which  we  must  say  exactly  the  reverse,  that  it 
was  indigenous  to  the  Southern  nations,  and  dif- 
fused only  by  military  occupation  over  some  Teu- 
tonic tribes  ;  lastly,  the  Oriental,  derived  from 
the  Arabians,  and  circulating  especially  through 
those  provinces  of  Europe  least  remote  from 
the  extensive  territories  of  their  splendid  domi- 
nation.* Separate  as  these  sources  appear,  it 
is  certain  the  streams  that  issued  from  them  had 
a  common  tendency,  so  that  each  seems  only  to 
strengthen  what  without  it  might  equally  have 
existed.  The  four  moving  principles  consoli- 
dated their  energies  in  two  great  results:  en- 
thusiasm for  individual  prowess,  and  enthu- 
siasm for  the  female  character.  Imagination 
clothed  these  with  form,  and  that  form  was 
chivalry.  The  Knight  of  La  Mancha,  who 

*  I  have  here  taken  no  notice  of  the  Celtic  character,  because 
I  confess  I  cannot  perceive  any  palpable  results  of  it  in  the 
new  literature.  I  am  aware,  however,  that  there  is  a  party 
amongst  our  literati,  which  professes  to  support  the  claims  of 
the  Celts  to  a  larger  portion  of  influence  than  is  commonly  as- 
cribed to  them. 


ITALIAN  WORKS   OF  IMAGINATION.    191 

sought  heroes  in  peasants,  and  giants  in  wind- 
mills, was  not  more  deplorably  mistaken  than 
some  modern  adventurers,  who  endeavored  to 
fix  an  historical  period,  at  which  the  feats  of 
knight-errantry  may  have  actually  occurred. 
In  truth,  feudality  and  chivalry  correspond  as 
real  and  ideal.  The  wild  energetic  virtues  of 
baronial  chieftains  were  purified  from  their  heavy 
alloy,  and  sublimated  into  models  of  courteous 
valor,  by  those  pious  frauds  of  imagination,  which 
ameliorate  the  future  while  they  disguise  the 
past.  In  the  midst  of  a  general  dissolution  of 
manners  (the  greater  part  being  alike  ignorant 
of  a  comprehensive  morality,  and  neglectful  of 
religious  injunctions,  which  the  enjoiners  were 
the  first  to  disobey),  the  orient  light  of  Poetry- 
threw  a  full  radiance  on  the  natural  heart  of 
woman,  and,  as  in  the  other  sex,  created  the 
high  sense  of  honor  it  pretended  to  find.  I  have 
said  that  all  the  four  agencies  I  have  mentioned 
had  their  share  in  impressing  this  direction  on 
the  resurgent  genius  of  Europe.  Can  it  be 
doubted  that  the  spirit  of  revealed  religion,  how- 
ever little  understood,  wrought  in  the  heart  of 
man  a  reverence  for  the  weaker  sex,  both  as 
teaching  him  to  consider  their  equality  with 


192    ORATION  ON  THE  INFLUENCE   OF 

him  in  the  sight  of  God,  and  the  privileges 
of  Christian  life,  and  as  encouraging  in  him- 
self those  mild  and  tender  qualities,  which 
are  the  especial  glory  of  womanhood  ?  Can 
it  b.e»  doubted,  that  if  this  were  the  tendency 
of  Christianity,  yet  more  emphatically  it  was 
the  tendency  of  Catholicism  ?  The  inordi- 
nate esteem  for  chastity  ;  the  solemnity  at- 
tached to  conventual  vows ;  the  interest  taken 
in  those  fair  saints,  on  whom  the  Church  has 
conferred  beatitude,  that  after  conquering  the 
temptations  of  earth  they  might  be  able  to  suc- 
cor the  tempted ;  above  all  the  worship  of  the 
Virgin,  the  Queen  of  Heaven,  supposed  more 
lenient  to  sinners  for  the  lenity  of  her  sex ;  and 
more  powerful  in  their  redemption  by  her  claim 
of  maternal  authority  over  her  Almighty  Son — 
these  articles  of  a  most  unscriptural,  but  very 
beautiful  mythology,  could  not  be  established 
in  general  belief  without  investing  the  feminine 
character  with  ideal  splendor  and  loveliness. 
But,  as  an  Englishman,  I  should  feel  myself 
guilty  of  ingratitude  towards  the  Goths,  my  an- 
cestors, if  I  did  not  recall  to  mind  that  they  were 
always  honorably  distinguished  from  their  neigh- 
bors by  a  more  noble  view  of  the  domestic  rela- 


ITALIAN  WORKS   OF  IMAGINATION.    193 

tion;  and  it  is  not  perhaps  a  chimerical  belief 
that  the  terms  of  humble  homage,  with  which 
cavaliers  of  the  middle  ages  addressed  the  ob- 
jects of  their  admiration,  may  have  found  a  pre- 
cedent in  the  language  of  those  ancient  warriors, 
who  defied  the  colossal  sovereignty  of  Rome,  but 
bent  with  generous  humility  before  the  beings 
who  owed  to  them  their  safety,  whom  they 
considered  as  the  favorites  of  heaven,  the  tene- 
ments of  frequent  inspiration.  The  love,  how- 
ever, which  animated  the  Troubadours  was  not 
only  humble  and  devotional,  but  passionate  and 
energetic.  While  they  exalt  their  object  to  the 
rank  of  an  angel,  they  would  not  have  her  cease 
to  be  a  woman.  Here  other  influences  become 
perceptible,  the  warm  temperaments  of  Italy  and 
Spain,  and  the  wild  impetuosity  of  Eastern  pas- 
sion. To  Islam,  indeed,  the  Christian  civiliza- 
tion of  Europe  owes  more  than  might  on  first 
•thoughts  be  imagined.*  In  the  forms  of  Arabic 

*  I  do  not  wish  to  be  understood  as  adopting  in  its  full  ex- 
tent the  theory  of  Warburton  and  Warton,  that  all  marks  of 
Orientalism  occurring  in  romantic  literature  came  by  direct 
transmission  through  the  Saracens.  It  has  been  amply  shown 
by  many  writers,  since  the  days  of  Warton,  that  much  will 
still  remain  unaccounted  for,  which  can  only  be  referred  to  the 
essential  Asiatic  character  of  the  whole  race,  now  in  possession 
13 


194    ORATION  ON  THE  INFLUENCE   OF 

imagination  appeared  most  probably  the  first 
pattern  of  that  amorous  mysticism  I  have  been 
describing,  since  the  immemorial  customs  of  their 
race  supplied  them  with  many  of  those  rever- 
ential habits,  to  which,  in  the  West,  I  have  as- 
signed different  causes.  Slavery,  and  that  to 
our  ideas  most  revolting,  is  the  general  condi- 
tion of  the  sex  in  all  Asiatic  countries  ;  yet  with- 
in this  coercive  circle  is  another  in  which  the  re- 
lation is  almost  reversed ;  and  the  seraglio,  which 
seems  a  prison  without  the  walls,  within  might 
present  the  appearance  of  a  temple.  The  cares, 
the  sufferings,  the  dangers  of  common  life,  ap- 
proach not  the  sacred  precinct  in  which  the  Mus- 
sulman preserves  the  idol  of  his  affections  from 
vulgar  gaze.  Art  and  luxury  are  made  to  minis- 
ter perpetually  to  her  enjoyment.  Slaves  must 
become  more  servile  in  her  presence  ;  flattery 
must  be  pitched  in  a  higher  key,  if  offered  to  her 
acceptance.  Customs  like*these,  however  perni- 
cious to  society,  are  certainly  not  incapable  of 

of  Europe.  But  on  the  present  occasion  I  shall  not  be  expect- 
ed to  enter  into  so  abstruse  a  question  as  that  of  the  commu- 
nity of  fiction:  It  is  sufficient  for  my  purpose  that  the  Saracen 
influence  is  an  undoubted  fact,  although  some  have  injudici- 
ously extended  this  fact  to  circumstances  which  are  beyond  its 
legitimate  reach. 


ITALIAN  WORKS  OF  IMAGINATION.    195 

charming  the  imagination,  and  of  giving  it  that 
peculiar  turn  which  we  find  in  the  Gazeles  of 
Persian  poetry,  the  Cassides  of  Arabian,  and  the 
forms  of  which  were  early  adopted  by  the  con- 
genial spirits  of  Provence  and  Castille.  Still 
more  evident  is  the  influence  of  Mahommedan- 
ism  on  the  delicate  refinements  of  warfare,  which 
formed  the  other  element  of  chivalry,  and  the 
consequent  heroic  style  of  composition.  From 
the  time  that,  with  the  reign  of  the  Abbassides, 
began  the  splendid  period  of  Arabian  literature 
and  science,  what  more  familiar  to  Christian 
ears  than  the  illustrious  notions  of  courtesy,  and 
honor,  which  adorned  the  narratives  of  those 
itinerant  Eastern  reciters,  seldom  absent  from 
European  courts,  and  welcome  alike  to  the  fes- 
tive hall,  or  the  retirements  of  listening  beauty  ? 
Nor  were  opportunities  long  wanting  of  per- 
sonal encounter  with  those  lordly  children  of 
the  Crescent,  who  were  so  presumptuous  as  to 
outshine  in  virtue  the  devoted  servants  of  Rome. 
The  close  of  the  eleventh  century  is  memorable 
for  the  great  contest  in  Spain,  which  terminated 
in  the  capture  of  Toledo,  and  the  reduction  of 
all  New  Castille  under  the  sway  of  Alfonso  the 
Sixth.  This  was  indeed  a  noble  struggle,  and 


196    ORATION  ON  THE  INFLUENCE   OF 

even  at  this  distatice  of  time  may  well  make  us 
glow  with  exultation.  From  all  parts  of  Europe 
flocked  the  bravest  knights  to  the  standard  of 
the  Cid:  to  their  undoubting  imaginations  the 
religion  of  the  world  was  at  issue,  the  kingdoms 
of  God  and  Satan  were  met  in  visible  collision  : 
yet  the  mutual  admiration  of  heroic  spirits  was 
too  strong  to  be  repressed,  and  neither  party 
scrupled  to  emulate  the  virtues  which  they  con- 
demned as  the  varnish  of  perdition.  The  Chris- 
tian population  of  Castille  and  Arragon  had  long 
been  exposed  to  the  humanizing  influences  of 
Moorish  cultivation :  not  for  nothing  had  the 
dynasty  of  the  Ommiades  been  established,  or 
the  kingdom  of  Grenada  flourished :  nor  if  the 
successors  of  Abderaman  were  unable  to  with- 
stand the  flower  of  Castillian  chivalry,  should 
we  in  justice  forget,  that  they  had  tempered  the 
weapons  by  which  they  were  overcome ;  and 
had  they  done  less  for  humanity,  they  might 
have  prospered  better  for  themselves.  The 
issue  of  this  war,  favorable  as  it  was  to  the  cause 
of  Christendom,  served  to  increase  and  diffuse 
this  refined  valor,  and  the  literary  culture  which 
had  fostered  it.  The  conqueror  of  Toledo  gave 
the  noble  example  of  an  entire  toleration ;  a 


ITALIAN  WORKS  OF  IMAGINATION.  197 

numerous  Moorish  population  continued  to  live 
with  the  Christian  occupants ;  and,  while  they 
mingled  in  their  pursuits,  imparted  largely  the 
spirit  of  their  own.  The  schools  and  learned 
institutions  retained  their  dignities  :  the  Moza- 
rahs  took  rank  in  the  court  and  the  army ;  and 
when  the  French  cavaliers  returned  to  their 
native  land,  when  Raymond  of  Barcelona  ob- 
tained the  crown  of  Provence,  the  good  effects 
of  their  expedition  soon  became  visible  in  soft- 
ened prejudices,  enlarged  imaginations,  and  a 
more  ardent  love  of  letters.*  The  influence  of 
the  East  was  not,  however,  confined  to  the 
secret  moulding  of  mind ;  it  displayed  itself  in 
the  outward  forms  of  literary  composition,  few 
of  which  are  not  borrowed  from  Arabia.  The 

*  In  a  very  few  years  this  intimacy  with  Eastern  customs  was 
renewed.  The  Crusades  were  preached,  and  again  the  Chris- 
tian cause  was  set  to  the  peril  of  the  sword.  It  is  needless  to 
remark  what  a  wonderful  effect  they  must  have  produced  in 
bringing  the  European  nations  into  close  contact  with  one  an- 
other, and  with  that  common  enemy,  who  was  in  fact  their 
best  friend.  The  Crusades  form,  as  might  be  expected,  the 
most  common  topic  of  Provencal  poetry,  during  the  12th  and 
13th  centuries.  The  subjects  of  Trouveur  fiction  also  experi- 
enced a  sudden  change.  The  achievements  of  Arthur  and 
Charlemagne  were  forgotten:  the  quest  of  the  S.  Greal  was 
abandoned;  and  in  the  words  of  "VVarton,  "Trebisond  took  place 
of  Roncesvalles." 


198    ORATION  ON  THE  INFLUENCE  OF 

tale,  or  novel,  that  most  delightful  vehicle  of 
amusing  instruction,  affording  such  a  range  to 
inventive  fancy,  and  pliable  to  such  a  variety 
of  style,  was  undoubtedly  rendered  fashionable 
by  the  reciters  I  have  already  mentioned.  All 
the  light  and  graceful  machinery  of  enchant- 
ment, the  name  and  attributes  of  faerie  (cer- 
tainly the  most  charming  expedient  ever  thought 
of  to  satisfy  the  human  propensity  to  polytheism 
without  incurring  the  sin  of  idolatry),  are  owed 
to  these  ingenious  travellers,  who  little  thought, 
when  they  received  their  dole  of  recompense 
from  some  imperious  lord,  whose  care  they  had 
contributed  to  relax,  what  a  bounty,  beyond  all 
recompense,  they  were  involuntarily  bestowing 
on  the  generations  about  to  succeed  to  this 
Western  inheritance.  There  was  a  yet  more 
important  transmission  from  the  Levant,  which 
decided  the  whole  bent  of  modern  poetry,  I 
mean  the  use,  at  least  the  extensive  and  varied 
use,  of  rhyme.*  This  appears  to  be  the  crea- 

«  Rhyme  has  been  said  to  contain  in  itself  a  constant  appeal 
to  memory  and  hope.  This  is  true  of  all  verse,  of  all  har- 
monized sound;  but  it  is  certainly  made  more  palpable  by  the 
recurrence  of  termination.  The  dullest  senses  can  perceive  an 
identity  in  that,  and  be  pleased  with  it;  but  the  partial  iden- 
tity, latent  in  more  diffused  resemblances,  requires,  in  order  to 


ITALIAN  WORKS  OF  IMAGINATION.   199 

tion  of  Southern  climates :  for  the  Southern 
languages  abound  in  vowels,  and  rhyme  is  the 
resonance  of  vowels,  while  the  Northern  over- 
flow with  consonants  and  naturally  fall  into  allit- 
eration. Thus,  although  it  is  a  great  mistake 
which  some  writers  have  fallen  into,  the  consid- 
ering rhyme  as  almost  unknown  to  the  poetry 
of  the  Gothic  races,  we  may  fairly  consider  it  as 
transported  with  them  in  their  original  migra- 
tion from  their  Asiatic  birthplace,  while  the 
alliteration,  so  common  among  them,  appears  a 
natural  product  of  their  new  locality.  No  poetry, 
however,  in  the  world  was  so  founded  on  rhyme 
as  the  Arabian ;  and  some  of  its  most  compli- 
cated were  transferred  without  alteration  to  the 
Langue  d'Oc,  previous  to  their  obtaining  immor- 
tality in  the  hands  of  Dante  and  Petrarca. 
Those  ingenious  turns  of  fancy,  so  remarkable 
in  the  Eastern  style,  were  also  eagerly  adopted 
by  our  Western  imitators.  But  they  imitated 

be  appreciated,  a  soul  susceptible  of  musical  impression.  The 
ancients  disdained  a  mode  of  pleasure,  in  appearancle  so  little 
elevated,  so  ill  adapted  for  effects  of  art;  but  they  knew  not, 
and  with  their  metrical  harmonies,  perfectly  suited,  as  these 
were,  to  their  habitual  moods  of  feeling,  they  were  not  likely 
to  know  the  real  capacities  of  this  apparently  simple  and  vul- 
gar combination. 


200   ORATION  ON  THE  INFLUENCE    OF 

with  a  noble  freedom  and  gracefulness  :  it 
seemed  the  natural  mould  of  their  minds.  The 
subtlety  of  perception,  and,  at  the  same  time, 
the  sportiveness,  that  were  requisite  for  the 
management  of  these  compositions,  is  not  the 
less  curious  and  admirable  in  itself,  that  it  was 
employed  on  classes  of  resemblance,  which  our 
more  enlarged  knowledge  considers  as  unsub- 
stantial and  minute.  The  interval  that  sepa- 
rates the  concetti  of  that  era  from  the  frigid 
sparkles  of  some  modern  wits,  is  generally  com- 
mensurate with  the  eternal  division  of  truth  from 
falsehood,  strength  from  weakness,  beauty  from 
deformity.  Where  the  intellect  waxes  vigor- 
ous, without  any  large  support  from  what  has 
been  termed  "  bookmindedness,"  it  cannot  but 
spend  its  vivacity  on  repeated  and  fantastic 
modifications  of  its  small  capital  of  ideas.  There 
may  be  poverty  of  thought,  in  so  far  as  there 
are  few  objects  of  thought,  but  the  character 
of  the  thinking  faculty  is  not  poor ;  and  hence 
there  is  a  freshness  about  the  far-fetched  com- 
binations of  these  poets,  which  makes  them  true 
to  nature,  even  when  to  prosaic  eye  they  seem 
most  unnatural. 

I  have  thus  endeavored  to  trace  the  elements 


ITALIAN  WORKS  OF  IMAGINATION.  2oi 

of  romantic  literature,  in  their  first  state  of  com- 
position under  the  auspices  of  merry  Jonglerie  : 
in  describing  them  I  have,  in  fact,  been  analyz- 
ino-  the  Italian,  for  all  the  wealth  of  Provence 

fD  ' 

accrued  to  the  more  fortunate  writers  of  the 
Peninsula,  who,  while  they  lost  nothing  on  that 
side,  were  at  liberty  to  add  immensely  from 
another.  The  thirteenth  century  witnessed  a 
downfall  to  Provencal  glory  yet  more  sudden 
and  surprising  than  its  rise.  The  barbarous 
war  against  the  Albigenses  laid  desolate  the 
seats  of  this  literature  ;  and  the  extinction  of 
the  houses  of  Provence  and  Toulouse  reduced 
the  Langue  d'Oc,  which  for  the  space  of  three 
centuries  had  sat  at  the  right  hand  of  kings, 
with  nations  for  her  worshippers,  and  had  said, 
like  the  daughter  of  the  Chaldeans,  "  I  shall  be 
a  lady  forever,"  to  the  condition  of  a  depend- 
ant menial  in  the  courts  of  her  haughty  rival. 
Meanwhile  the  "  lingua  cortigiana,"  gradually 
extricating  itself  from  those  peculiarities  of 
idiom  which  rendered  the  inhabitants  of  one 
Italian  district  unintelligible  to  those  of  another, 
assumed  the  rank  of  a  written  language,  and 
began  with  better  omens  to  carry  on  that  war 
against  the  insolent  Langue  d'Oil,  which  the 


202   ORATION  ON  THE  INFLUENCE   OF 

successors  of  Sordel  and  Arnaud  de  Marveil 
had  ceased  to  maintain.  If  I  were  asked  to 
name  the  reasons  which  gave  this  language  so 
immeasurable  an  ascendency  over  its  forerun- 
ner, I  should  say  there  are  two,  both  arising 
from  its  geographical  position.  Italy  had  been 
the  seat  of  the  ancient  Empire ;  it  was  that  of 
Catholic  religion.  Not  only  would  the  recov- 
ery of  those  lost  treasures  of  heathen  civiliza- 
tion, the  poets,  historians,  and  philosophers  of 
Greece  and  Rome,  naturally  take  place  in  the 
country  where  most  of  them  were  buried  ;  but 
there  is  ever  a  latent  sympathy  in  the  mind 
of  a  posterity,  which  recognizes  with  an  instinc- 
tive gladness  the  feelings  of  their  ancestors, 
when  disclosed  to  them  in  books  or  other  mon- 
uments. Who  can  doubt  that  the  minds  of 
Italians  would  spring  up  to  meet  the  utterance 
of  Cicero,  Livy,  and  Virgil,  with  a  far  deeper 
and  stronger  sense  of  community,  than  any 
other  nation  could  have  done  !  *  Therefore 
they  not  only  acquired  new  objects  of  thought 

*  What  a  beautiful  symbol  of  this  truth  is  contained  in  that  canto 
of  the  "Purgatorio  "  which  relates  the  meeting  between  Sordel  and 
Virgil.  Centuries,  and  the  mutations  of  centuries  lapse  into  noth- 
ing before  that  strong  feeling  of  homogeneity  which  bursts  forth  in 
the  "  0  Mantovano ! " 


ITALIAN  WORKS  OF  IMAGINATION.   203 

at  the  revival  of  literature,  but  they  felt 
their  own  thought  expanded  and  miraculously 
strengthened.  This,  then,  I  assign  as  the  first 
reason  of  the  superiority  we  perceive  in  Italian 
that  it  had  a  capacity  of  taking  into  itself,  into 
its  own  young  and  creative  vigor,  the  whole 
height,  breadth,  and  depth  of  human  knowl- 
edge, as  it  then  stood.  My  second  reason 
is  that  Italy  was  the  centre  and  home  of  the 
Catholic  Faith.  An  Italian,  whatever  might 
be  his  moral  disposition,  felt  his  dignity  bound 
up  in  some  sort  with  the  name  and  cause  of 
Christianity.  Was  not  the  Pope  the  Bishop 
of  Rome  ?  and  in  that  word  Rome  there  was 
a  spell  of  sufficient  strength  to  secure  his  im- 
agination against  all  heresies  and  schisms. 
Again,  the  splendors  and  pomps  of  the  daily 
worship ;  the  music  and  the  incense,  and  the 
beautiful  saints  and  the  tombs  of  martyrs  — 
what  strong  hold  must  they  have  taken  on 
the  feelings  of  every  Italian  !  It  is  true  the 
profligacies  of  the  Papal  court,  and  many  other 
circumstances,  had  gone  to  weaken  the  un- 
doubting  faith  of  Europe  before  the  thirteenth 
century  ;  but  at  that  period,  by  the  institution 
of  Mendicant  Orders,  a  fresh  impulse  was  given 


204    ORATION  ON  THE  INFLUENCE   OF 

to  the  human  heart,  ever  parched  and  dying 
of  thirst  when  religion  is  made  a  mockery.  St. 
Francis  has  a  claim  upon  our  literary  gratitude, 
rather  more  substantial,  though  less  precise  in 
form,  than  his  reported  invention  of  the  versi 
sciolti.  It  seems  clear,  that  the  spirit  awak- 
ened in  Italy,  through  his  means  and  those  of 
St.  Dominic,  prepared  the  Italian  mind  for  that 
vigorous  assertion  of  Christianity,  as  the  head 
and  front  of  modern  civilization,  the  perpetually 
presiding  genius  of  our  poetry,  our  art,  and  our 
philosophy.  These,  then,  I  consider  the  two 
directive  principles  of  their  literature :  the  first 
a  full  and  joyous  reception  of  former  knowl- 
edge into  their  own  very  different  habits  of 
knowing ;  the  second  a  deep  and  intimate  im- 
pression of  forms  of  Christianity.  The  com- 
bined operation  of  the  two  is  seen  in  their 
love-poetry,  which  dwells  "  like  a  star  apart," 
separated  by  broad  spaces  of  distinction  from 
every  expression  of  that  sentiment  in  other  lan- 
guages. Its  base  is  undoubtedly  the  Trouba- 
dour poetry,  of  which  I  have  already  spoken, 
but  upon  this  they  have  reared  a  splendid  ed- 
ifice of  Platonism,  and  surmounted  it  with  the 
banner  of  the  cross.  In  his  treatise  "  De  Vul- 


ITALIAN  WORKS   OF  IMAGINATION.  205 

gari  Eloquentia,"  Dante  asserts  of  the  Lingua 
di  Si,  that  even  before  the  date  of  his  own 
writings,  "qui  dulcius,  subtiliusque  poetati  sunt, 
ii  familiares  et  domestic!  sui  sunt."  I  think  we 
cannot  read  the  poems  of  Cino  da  Pistoia,  or 
either  Guido,  without  perceiving  this  early  su- 
periority and  more  masculine  turn  of  thought. 
But  it  was  not  in  scattered  sonnets  that  the 
whole  magnificence  of  that  idea  could  be  man- 

O 

ifested,  which  represents  love  as  at  once  the 
base  and  pyramidal  point  of  the  entire  uni- 
verse, and  teaches  us  to  regard  the  earthly 
union  of  souls,  not  as  a  thing  accidental,  tran- 
sitory, and  dependent  on  the  condition  of  hu- 
man society,  but  with  far  higher  import,  as  the 
best  and  the  appointed  symbol  of  our  relations 
with  God,  and  through  them  of  his  own  ineffa- 
ble essence.  In  the  "  Divine  Comedy,"  this 
idea  received  its  full  completeness  of  form  ; 
that  wonderful  work  of  which,  to  speak  ade- 
quately, we  must  borrow  the  utterance  of  its 
conceiving  mind. 

"  La  gloria  di  colui,  die  tutto  muove, 
Per  1' universe  penetra,  e  risplende, 
In  una  parte  piii,  e  raeno  altrove."  * 

*  D  C.  Paradise,  c.  i.,  v.  1. 


206    ORATION   ON  THE  INFLUENCE    OF 

This  is  not  the  occasion  for  entering  into  a 
criticism,  or  detailed  encomium  of  Dante  ;  I  only 
wish  to  point  him  out  as  an  entire  and  plenary 
representation  of  the  Italian  mind,  a  summary  in 
his  individual  self  of  all  the  elements  I  have 
been  describing,  which  never  before  had  coex- 
isted in  unity  of  action,  a  signal-point  in  the 
stream  of  time,  showing  at  once  how  much 
power  was  at  that  exact  season  aggregated  to  the 
human  intellect,  and  what  direction  was  about  to 
be  impressed  upon  it  by  the  "rushing  mighty 
wind,"  the  spirit  of  Christianity,  under  whose 
conditions  alone  a  new  literature  was  become 
possible.  Petrarch  appears  to  me  a  corollary 
from  Dante  ;  the  same  spirit  in  a  different  mould 
of  individual  character,  and  that  a  weaker  mould ; 
yet  better  adapted,  by  the  circumstances  of  its 
position,  to  diffuse  the  great  thought  which  pos- 
sessed them  both,  and  to  call  into  existence  so 
great  a  number  of  inferior  recipients  of  it,  as 
might  affect  insensibly,  but  surely,  the  course  of 
general  feeling.  Petrarch  was  far  from  appre- 
hending either  his  own  situation,  or  that  of  man- 
kind, with  anything  like  the  clear  vision  of  Dante 
whom  he  affected  to  undervalue,  idly  striving 
against  that  destiny  which  ordained  their  coop- 


ITALIAN  WORKS  OF  IMAGINATION.   207 

eration.  His  life  was  restless  and  perplexed ; 
that  continual  craving  for  sympathy,  taking  in 
its  lighter  inoods  the  form  and  name  of  vanity, 
which  drove  him,  as  he  tells  us  himself,  "  from 
town  to  town,  from  country  to  country,"  would 
have  rendered  him  incapable  of  assuming  the  de- 
cisive, initiatory  position  which  was  not  difficult 
to  be  maintained  by  the  proud  Ghibelline  spirit, 
who  depended  so  little  on  others,  so  much  on 
his  own  undaunted  energies.  On  that  ominous 
morning,  when  the  recluse  of  Arqua  expired, 
his  laurelled  brow  reposing  on  the  volume  he 
was  reading,  the  vital  powers  of  Italian  poetry 
seemed  suspended  with  his  own.  The  form 
indeed  remained  unaltered ;  so  perfect  was  the 
state  of  polished  cultivation  in  which  he  left  it, 
that,  even  when  the  informing  genius  was  de- 
parted, we  may  say  of  it  as  his  own  phrase, 
"  Death  appeared  lovely  in  that  lovely  face." 
When,  after  a  long  interval,  inspiration  returned 
under  the  auspices  of  Lorenzo  the  Magnificent, 
the  lineaments  of  that  countenance  had  under- 
gone a  change,  and  their  divinity  was  much 
abated.  Much  indeed  had  been  going  on  in  Eu- 
rope, that  could  not  but  withdraw  men  from  that 
state  of  feeling,  which  produced  the  creators  of 


208    ORATION  ON  THE  INFLUENCE   OF 

Tuscan  poetry.  The  lays  of  the  Troubadours 
were  now  forgotten ;  the  very  shade  of  what 
once  was  Arabian  greatness  was  passing  away  ; 
ancient  literature  had  become  familiar  and  almost 
trite  ;  the  republican  spirit  of  Italy  was  on  the 
decline ;  the  courtly  idiom  of  Paris  reigned  in 
undisputed  supremacy:  its  ease  and  gayety,  its 
exuberance  and  inventive  narration,  its  treasures 
of  old  chivalrous  lore,  its  rude  but  fascinating 
attempts  at  dramatic  composition,  its  perfect  pli- 
ancy to  that  worldly  temper  which  would  pass 
life  off  as  a  jest ;  all  this  good  and  evil  together 
began  to  give  it  an  ascendency  over  the  mind  of 
Europe,  already  far  advanced  on  the  road  of  civ- 
ilization. The  poetry  of  Pulci,  Boiardo,  Ariosto, 
and  Tasso,  seems  to  me  expressive  of  this  change 
in  men's  ways  of  thinking  and  feeling.  I  do  not 
mean  that  they  are  not  thoroughly  and  genuinely 
Italian  ;  that  their  poems,  especially  the  immor- 
tal works  of  Ariosto  and  his  rival,  are  not  rich  in 
manifold  beauties  ;  but  that  there  is  a  laxity,  a 
weakness  of  tone,  in  the  deeper  portion  of  their 
poetic  nature ;  that  their  efforts  are  more  scat- 
tered, and  seem  to  obey  less  one  mighty  govern- 
ing impulse,  than  was  the  case  with  the  earlier 
masters  ;  that,  in  a  word,  there  was  far  less 


ITALIAN  WORKS  OF  IMAGINATION.   209 

genial  power,  although  perhaps  far  more  bril- 
liancy of  execution.  I  would  borrow  the  phrase 
of  Brutus,  and  say,  "I  do  not  love  these  less, 
but  Dante  and  Petrarch  more,"  I  feel,  in  pass- 
ing from  one  to  the  other,  exactly  the  same  dif- 
ference of  impression,  with  which  I  should  turn 
to  a  picture  of  Guido,  Domenichino,  or  any  other 
Bolognese  painter,  after  contemplating  the  pure 
glories  of  old  Tuscan  or  German  art.  I  know 
nothing  more  difficult  to  define  than  the  quality 
and  limits  of  this  difference  ;  to  consider  it  in- 
deed would  lead  into  higher  questions  than  may 
be  agitated  on  this  occasion.  This  much,  how- 
ever, seems  certain.  There  is  in  man  a  natural 
life,  and  there  is  also  a  spiritual :  art,  which  holds 
the  mirror  up  to  nature,  is  then  most  perfect, 
when  it  gives  back  the  image  of  both. 

Having  thus  endeavored  to  ascertain  the  true 
character  of  Italian  literature,  I  come  now  to 
consider  this  character  in  conjunction  with  the 
writings  of  Englishmen,  confining  the  inquiry,  as 
I  have  hitherto  done,  to  the  products  of  imagina- 
tion, because  in  these  alone  such  influences  as 
extend  beyond  palpable  imitation  become  per- 
ceptible, and  because  I  do  not  find  that  any  his- 
torical or  philosophical  Italians  have  materially 
14 


210   ORATION  ON  THE  INFLUENCE   OF 

affected,  in  any  way,  the  literature  of  other  coun- 
tries. First,  then,  as  in  liege  duty  bound,  let  us 
look  upwards  to  that  serene  region,  "  pure  of 
cloud,"  wherein  is  revealed  the  form  of  Chaucer, 
our  beautiful  morning  star,  whose  beams  earli- 
est breaking  through  the  dense  darkness  of  our 
northern  Parnassus,  did  so  pierce  and  dissipate 
its  clouds,  adorning  their  abrupt  edges  with 
golden  lining  of  dawn, 

"  That  all  the  orient  laughed  at  the  sight." 
He  indeed  delighted  to  attend  "  the  nods  and 
becks  and  wreathed  smiles,"  with  which  the 
Gallic  Muse  invited  young  imaginations  to  follow 
her  to  those  coasts  of  old  Romance,  where  some- 
times were  seen  the  tourneys  and  courtly  pomp 
of  Arthur  or  Charlemagne,  sometimes  the  mystic 
forms  of  Allegory,  clothing  in  persuasive  shape 
the  incorporeal  loveliness  of  Truth.  The  Langue 
d'Oil,  full  of  a  wild  freshness  that  proclaimed  its 
origin  in  the  triumphant  settlement  of  the  North- 
men, abounded  in  rich  and  fanciful  fables,  which 
found  a  congenial  response  on  this  side  of  the 
Channel.  The  conquest  of  Poitou  and  Guienne 
during  Chaucer's  lifetime,  by  the  warriors  of 
Crecy  and  Poictiers,  threw  open  those  other 
stores,  of  which  I  have  already  spoken  so  large- 


ITALIAN  WORKS  OF  IMAGINATION.  211 

ly :  many  Provencal  poets  followed  the  Black 
Prince  to  his  father's  court  to  enjoy  their  royal 
patronage  and  general  favor.  We  need  only 
cast  a  hasty  glance  over  the  pages  of  Chaucer 
to  perceive  how  readily  he  drank  at  both  these 
sources,  especially  the  first,  which  indeed  ever 
since  the  Conquest  had  been  a  spring  of  refresh- 
ment to  English  minds.*  But  we  shall  perceive 
also  a  vein  of  stronger  thought  and  chaster  ex- 
pression than  were  common  in  Cisalpine  coun- 
tries :  we  shall  recognize  the  subduing,  yet  at 
the  same  time  elevating  power,  which  passed 
into  his  soul  from  their  spirits,  who  just  before 
the  season  of  his  greatness  had  "  enlumined 

*  Mr.  Wordsworth,  on  being  asked  where  the  French  poetry  was 
to  be  sought  for,  is  said  to  have  replied,  "  In  the  old  Chronicles." 
I  believe  that  a  more  assiduous  study  of  early  French  literature 
than  is  common  at  present  would  be  repaid  by  the  discover}7  of 
much  poetic  beauty,  not  merely  in  prosaic  forms,  but  alluring  us 
by  varied  graces  of  metrical  arrangement.  I  hope  my  readers 
will  bear  in  mind  that  I  have  been  speaking  on  this  occasion  of 
two  separate  Frances :  the  one,  the  country  of  William  de  Lorris 
and  Froissart,  justly  venerated  by  our  Chaucers,  our  Gowers,  our 
Lydgates,  and  the  other  racy  thinkers  of  Norman  England;  the 
other,  a  much  later  invention,  retaining  few  features,  except  such 
as  were  negative,  of  the  Langue  d'Oil,  the  country  of  Boileau  and 
Voltaire,  essentially  hostile  to  the  higher  imagination,  although 
possessed  of  advantages  for  discursive  writings  which  I  have  men- 
tioned further  on. 


212  ORATION  ON  THE  INFLUENCE   OF 

Italie  of  poetrie."      We  know  that  he  travelled 
to  that  land : 

"  Quin  et  in  has  olim  prevenit  Tityrus  eras."  * 
We  have  on  record  his  admiration  of  "  Francis 
Petrarke,  the  laureate  Poet,"  and  of  that  other 
wise  poet  of  Florence,  "  hight  Dantes."  From 
Boccaccio  he  imitated,  as  masters  alone  imitate, 
that  incomparable  composition,  "  The  Knighte's 
Tale,"  also  the  beautiful  story  of  "  Griseldis," 
and  probably  the  "  Troilus  and  Cresseide."  In 
the  latter  he  has  inserted  a  sonnet  of  Petrarch ; 
but  it  is  not  so  much  to  his  direct  adoptions  that 
I  refer,  as  to  the  general  modulation  of  thought, 
that  clear  softness  of  his  images,  that  energetic 
self-possession  of  his  conceptions,  and  that  melo- 
dious repose  in  which  are  held  together  all  the 
emotions  he  delineates.  The  distinct  influence 
of  the  Italian  character  is  more  evident  with 
respect  to  the  father  of  our  poetry,  than  after- 
wards with  respect  to  Spenser  and  his  contem- 
poraries, precisely  because  it  was  in  the  first 
period  more  pure  in  itself,  and  had  admitted 
little  of  the  Northern  romance.  The  second  de- 
velopment of  the  Italian  poetry  was,  as  we  have 

*  Milton  ad  Mansura,  v.  34,  as  well  aa  Spenser,  gives  Chaucer 
the  name  of  Titvrus. 


ITALIAN  WORKS  OF  IMAGINATION.   213 

seen,  formed  out  of  the  old  chivalrous  stories, 
and  may  be  considered  as  formed  on  the  Norman 
French,  just  as  the  first  had  been  on  the  Proven- 
c.al.  It  came,  therefore,  bearing  its  own  recom- 
mendation, to  our  Norman  land :  exactly  the  same 
part  of  our  national  temper  now  caught  with 
eagerness  at  Ariosto  and  Tasso,  which,  in  less 
civilized  times,  had  delighted  in  the  Brut  d'An- 
gleterre,  or  the  Roman  de  la  Rose.  No  sooner 
had  the  mighty  spirit  of  the  Protestant  Reforma- 
tion awakened  all  dormant  energies  and  justified 
all  lofty  aspirations,  than  literature  of  ah1  sorts, 
but  especially  poetry,  began  to  arise  in  England ; 
and  one  of  its  first  results,  or  steps  of  progress, 
was  to  bring  us  into  close  communication  with 
this  second  school  of  Transalpine  poets.  As- 
cham,  in  his  "  Scholemaster,"  informs  us,  that 
about  this  time  an  infinite  number  of  Italian 
books  were  translated  into  English.  Amongst 
these  were  many  novels  which  are  well  known 
to  form  the  groundwork  of,  perhaps,  the  larger 
part  of  our  early  drama,  including  Shakspeare. 
It  should  seem  too  that  our  metrical  language 
acquired  many  improvements  from  this  study. 
Warton  assures  us,  that  "  the  poets  in  the  age 
of  Elizabeth  introduced  a  great  variety  of  meas- 


214   ORATION  ON  THE  INFLUENCE   OF 

ures  from  the  Italian  ;  particularly  in  the  lyrical 
pieces  of  that  time,  in  their  canzonets,  madrigals, 
devises,  and  epithalamiums."  It  is  needless  to 
multiply  instances  of  so  palpable  a  fact  as  is  the 
Italian  tone  of  sentiment  in  those  great  writers 
to  whom  we  owe  almost  everything*  What 
soothed  the  solitary  hours  of  Surrey  with  a  more 
powerful  magic  than  Agrippa  could  have  shown 
him  ?  *  What  comforted  the  noble  Sidney  when 
he  sought  refuge  in  flight  from  the  dangerous 
kindness  of  his  too  beautiful  Stella  ?  What 
potent  charm  could  lure  that  genius,  whose  am- 
bitious grasp  an  Eldorado  had  hardly  sufficed,  to 
utter  his  melodious  plaint  over  "  the  grave  where 
Laura  lay  ?  "  From  what  source  of  perpetual 
freshness  did  Fletcher  nourish  his  tenderness  of 
soul,  his  rich  pictorial  powers,  his  deep  and  va- 
ried melodies  ?  And  what  shall  not  be  said  of 
him,  whose  song  was  moralized  by  "  fierce  wars 
and  faithful  loves,"  that  "  sage,  serious  Spenser  " 
of  whom  Milton  speaks,  and  whom  he  "  dares  be 
known  to  think  a  better  teacher  than  Scotus  or 

*  The  merciless  blows  levelled  by  editorial  scepticism  at  the  ro- 
mantic story  of  Surrey  have  finished,  it  seems,  by  destroying  the 
real  Geraldine,  as  they  began  by  dissipating  her  illusive  semblance. 
Seethe  last  edition  of  Lord  Surrey's  poems,  in  Pickering's  "Aldine 
Poete." 


ITALIAN  WORKS  OF  IMAGINATION.  215 

Aquinas  ?  "  It  is  worthy  of  remark  that  Spen- 
ser, attached  as  he  was  to  the  wilder  strains 
of  the  chivalrous  epic,  has  not,  like  most  of  his 
time,  neglected  the  higher  mood  of  the  early 
Florentines.  The  "  Hymns  to  Heavenly  Love 
and  Beauty,"  and  many  parts  of  the  "  Fairy 
.  Queen,"  especially  the  sixth  canto  of  the  Third 
Book,  attest  how  thoroughly  he  felt  the  spirit 
of  Petrarch,  whom  the  generality  of  those  writ- 
ers seem  to  have  known  only  through  the  Pe- 
trarchisti,  so  little  do  they  comprehend  what 
they  profess  to  copy.  It  would  have  been 
strange,  however,  if,  in  the  most  universal  mind 
that  ever  existed,  there  had  been  no  express 
recognition  of  that  mode  of  sentiment,  which  had 
first  asserted  the  character,  and  designated  the 
direction,  of  modern  literature.  I  cannot  help 
considering  the  sonnets  of  Shakspeare  as  a  sort 
of  homage  to  the  Genius  of  Christian  Europe, 
necessarily  exacted,  although  voluntarily  paid,  be- 
'  fore  he  was  allowed  to  take  in  hand  the  sceptre 
of  his  endless  dominion.  I  would  observe,  too, 
that  the  structure  of  these  sonnets  is  perfectly 
Tuscan,  except  in  the  particular  of  the  rhymes, 
—  a  deviation  perhaps  allowable  to  the  different 


form  of  our  language,  although  the  examples  of 
Milton  and  Wordsworth  have  sufficiently  shown 
that  it  is  far  from  indispensable.  It  is  not  easy 
to  assign  just  limits  to  that  glorious  era,  which, 
with  rightful  pride,  we  denominate  the  Eliza- 
bethan :  but  perhaps  we  may  consider  that 
strange  tribe  of  poems  inappropriately  styled  by 
Johnson  the  Metaphysical,  as  a  prolongation  of 
its  inferior  characteristics  little  calculated  to  form 
a  fabric  of  themselves,  although  admirably  adap- 
ted for  ornament  and  relief.  In  some  of  these, 
however,  there  is  a  fervor  and  loyalty  of  feeling 
which  show  that  the  impression  of  the  better 
Italian  spirit  was  not  effaced,  although  in  con- 
stant danger  of  yielding  to  cumbrous  subtleties 
of  the  understanding.  I  would  in  particular 
name  Habington's  "  Castara,"  as  one  of  those 
works  which  make  us  proud  of  living  in  the 
same  land,  and  inheriting  the  same  associations, 
with  its  true-hearted  and  simple-minded  author. 
The  restoration  of  Charles  II.  was  the  trumpet 
of  a  great  woe  to  the  poetry  of  England :  .from 
this  time  we  may  date  the  extinction  of  the  Ital- 
ian influence,  as  a  national  feeling,  however  it 
may  occasionally  be  visible  in  the  writings  of 


ITALIAN   WORKS   OF  IMAGINATION.    2 17 

scattered  individuals.*  But  before  the  guardian 
angel  of  our  land  resigned  for  a  season  his  flam- 
ing sword,  unable  to  prevent  the  entrance  of  that 
evil  snake,  who  ever  watches  round  the  enclos- 
ure of  this  island  paradise,  and  seeks,  by  varia- 
tion of  shape,  sometimes  elevating  a  crest  of 
treacherous  lily  whiteness,  sometimes  smoothing 
a  polished  coat  of  three  magical  hues,  to  intro- 
duce, as  best  he  may,  his  malign  presence  into 
the  abode  of  liberty  and  obedience, — before,  I 
say,  the  higher  literature  of  England  became 
subject  to  Paris,  its  fainting  energies  were  gath- 
ered up  into  one  gigantic  effort.  Milton,  it  has 

*  Dryden,  who  led  up  the  death-dance  of  Parisian  foppery  and 
wickedness,  could  not  escape  from  his  better  nature,  his  strong 
conservative  remnant  of  good  old  English  feeling:  but  I  see  scarce 
any  direct  influence  of  the  Italians  in  his  writings.  Of  Pope, 
Thomson,  Young,  Goldsmith,  Akenside,  nothing  can  be  said.  The 
tesselated  mind  of  Gray  is  partly  made  up  of  Italian  reading:  but 
there  is  too  little  vitality  in  his  elegant  appropriations  to  be  com- 
municative of  life  to  that  surrounding  literature,  which  he  had 
sense  enough  in  some  things  to  despise,  but  not  strength  enough 
to  amend.  In  the  present  century  we  have  seen  a  very  successful 
attempt  to  transfer  the  light  and  graceful  sportiveness  of  the  Ber- 
nesque  style  into  the  weightier  framework  of  our  own  language. 
I  allude  to  Mr.  Frere's  "Whistlecraft,"  and  the  more  celebrated 
productions  of  a  late  eminent  genius,  never  perhaps  so  thoroughly 
master  of  himself  as  when  indulging  a  vein  of  bitter  mockery  and 
sarcasm  on  subjects  naturally  calculated  to  awaken  very  different 
feelings. 


2l8    ORATION  ON  THE  INFLUENCE  OF 

been  well  said,  constitutes  an  era  by  himself: 
no  category  of  a  class  can  rightly  include  him : 
we  see  at  once  in  reading  him,  that  he  lives  not 
in  a  genial  age,  and,  unlike  his  predecessors,  in 
whom  knowledge  as  well  as  feeling  has  an  air 
of  spontaneity,  he  seems  obliged  to  keep  his 
will  in  a  state  of  constant  undivided  activity,  in 
order  to  hold  in  subservience  the  reluctantly 
ministering  spirits  of  the  outward  and  inward 
world.  But  in  so  far  as  this  perpetually  exerted 
energy  has  chosen  for  itself  the  place  whereon 
it  will  act,  it  certainly  brings  him  into  close  sym- 
pathy with  his  immediate  forerunners,  the  Eliza- 
bethans, and  through  them  with  their  Tuscan 
masters.  Well,  indeed,  did  it  befit  the  Chris- 
tian poet,  who  was  raised  up  to  assert  the  great 
fundamental  truth  of  modern  civilization,  that 
manners  and  letters  have  a  law  of  progression, 
parallel,  though  not  coincident,  with  the  ex- 
pansion of  spiritual  religion,  —  to  assert  this,  not 
indeed  with  the  universality  and  depth  with 
which  the  same  truth  had  been  asserted  by 
Dante,  yet  with  some  relative  advantages  over 
him,  which  were  necessarily  obtained  from  a 
Protestant  and  English  position  ;  —  well,  I  say, 
did  it  befit  our  venerable  Milton  to  draw  weap- 


ITALIAN  WORKS  OF  IMAGINATION.   219 

ons  for  his  glorious  war  from  the  inexhaustible 
armory  of  the  "  Divina  Commedia,"  and  acknowl- 
edge his  honorable  robberies  in  terms  like  these: 
"  Ut  enim  est  apud  eos  ingenio  quis  forte  florid- 
ior,  aut  moribus  amoenis  et  elegantibus,  linguam 
Etruscam  in  deliciis  habet  praecipuis,  quin  et  in 
solida  etiam  parte  eruditionis  esse  sibi  ponendam 
ducit,  prsesertim  si  Graeca  aut  Latina,  vel  nullo, 
vel  modice  tinctu  imbiberit.  Ego  certe  istis 
utrisque  linguis  non  extremis  tantummodo  labris 
madidus ;  sed,  siquis  alius,  quantum  per  annos 
licuit,  poculis  majoribus  prolutus,  possum  tamen 
nonnunquam  ad  ilium  Dantem,  et  Petrarcham 
aliosque  vestros  complusculos,  libenter  et  cupide 
comessatum  ire :  nee  me  tarn  ipsa3  Athenae  At- 
tic33  cum  illo  suo  pellucido  Ilisso,  neque  ilia  vetus 
Roma  sua  Tiberis  ripa  retinere  valuerunt ;  quin 
saepe  Arnum  vestrum,  et  Faesulanos  illos  colles 
invisere  amem."'  What  then  shall  we  say  of 
these  things  ?  The  glories  of  the  Elizabethan 
literature  have  passed  away,  and  cannot  return : 
we  are  removed  from  them  by  the  whole  collec- 
tive space  of  two  distinct  literary  manifestations. 
Is  it  certain,  then,  that  we  can  do  nothing  but 

*  Epist.  Benedicto  Bonmatthseo  Florentine,  Milt.  Pr.  Op.  p.  571, 
40. 


admire  what  they  have  been,  and  lament  that 
they  cannot  be :  or  can  it  perhaps  be  shown,  that 
although  that  Italian  effluence  has  gone  away 
into  the  past,  and  has  been  followed  by  others 
not  more  permanent  than  itself,  it  has  yet  a  more 
immediate  hold  on  our  actual  condition,  than 
either  of  its  successors  ?  Let  us  for  a  moment 
consider  these.  I  would  not  be  understood,  in 
what  I  have  spoken  concerning  the  influence  of 
France,  as  believing  that  influence  productive 
of  unmixed  evil.  England,  it  should  never  be 
forgotten,  had  in  the  last  century  a  great  polit- 
ical part  to  perform.  It  was  necessary  perhaps 
that  her  language  should  receive  some  consider- 
able inflexion,  corresponding  to  the  active  ten- 
dency of  the  public  mind,  and  expressive  rather 
of  the  direct,  palpable  uses  of  life  than  of  senti- 
ments that  overleap  the  present.  For  such  a 
purpose  the  spirit  of  French  literature,  and  the 
laws  of  French  composition,  were  peculiarly  fit- 
ted :  nor  is  it  a  reasonable  cause  for  regret  that 
our  language  has  taken  into  itself  some  of  that 
wonderful  idiomatic  force,  that  clearness  and  con- 
ciseness of  arrangement,  that  correct  pointing  of 
expression  towards  the  level  of  general  under- 
standing, which  distinguish  the  French  tongue 


ITALIAN   WORKS   OF  IMAGINATION.  221 

above  all  others  with  which  we  are  acquainted, 
and  render  allowable  a  comparison  between  it 
and  the  Latin,  which  occupied  nearly  the  same 
post  in  the  old  civilization  as  the  organ,  not  of 
genial  and  original  thinking,  but  of  thoughts 
accumulated,  set  in  order,  smoothed  down,  and 
ready  for  diffusion.  The  close  however  of  the 
last  age,  and  the  first  quarter  of  the  present, 
have  witnessed  a  powerful  reaction,  as  well  in 
England  as  on  the  Continent,  against  the  ex- 
clusive dominion  of  prosaic,  and  what  are  termed 
utilitarian  tendencies  in  literature.  It  will  not 
be  disputed  that  the  form  at  least  of  this  reaction 
comes  to  us  from  Germany.  Not  until  the  offer- 
ings of  Schiller  and  Goethe  had  been  accepted, 
did  Coleridge  or  Wordsworth  kindle  their  sacri- 
ficial flame  on  the  altar  of  the  muses.  Not  until 
a  whole  generation  of  Germans  had  elaborated 
the  laws  of  a  lofty  criticism,  were  its  principles 
effective  on  our  own  writers.  From  them  we 
received  our  good,  and  from  them  our  evil. 
They  taught  us  that  the  worship  of  Beauty  is  a 
vocation  of  high  and  mysterious  import,  not  to 
be  relegated  into  the  round  of  daily  amusements, 
or  confined  by  the  superstitious  canons  of  tem- 
porary opinion.  They  held  up  to  our  merited 


222    ORATION  ON  THE  INFLUENCE  OF 

derision  that  meagre  spirit  of  systematized  imbe- 
cility, which  would  proscribe  the  most  important 
part  of  our  human  being,  as  guilty  of  imperti- 
nent interference  with  evident  interest.  But  the 
sagacious  remark  of  Bishop  Lowth,  that  "  the 
Germans  are  better  at  pulling  down  than  at  set- 
tin"1  up,"  is  not  merely  applicable  to  their  his- 
torical criticism.  It  is  a  good  and  honorable 
thing  to  throw  down  a  form  of  triumphant 
wrong,  but  unless  we  substitute  the  right,  it  had 
been  well,  perhaps,  had  we  never  stirred.  The 
last  state  is  often  worse  than  the  first.  I  do  not 
hesitate  to  express  my  conviction,  that  the  spirit 
of  the  critical  philosophy,  as  seen  by  its  fruits  in 
all  the  ramifications  of  art,  literature,  and  moral- 
ity, is  as  much  more  dangerous  than  the  spirit  of 
mechanical  philosophy,  as  it  is  fairer  in  appear- 
ance, and  more  capable  of  alliance  with  our 
natural  feelings  of  enthusiasm  and  delight.  Its 
dangerous  tendency  is  this,  that  it  perverts  those 
very  minds,  whose  office  it  was  to  resist  the  per- 
verse impulses  of  society,  and  to  proclaim  truth 
under  the  dominion  of  falsehood.  However  pre- 
cipitate may  be  at  any  time  the  current  of  public 
opinion,  bearing  along  the  mass  of  men  to  the 
grosser  agitations  of  life,  and  to  such  schemes  of 


ITALIAN  WORKS  OF  IMAGINATION.  223 

belief  as  make  these  the  prominent  object,  there 
will  always  be  in  reserve  a  force  of  antagonist 
opinion,  strengthened  by  opposition,  and  attest- 
ing the  sanctity  of  those  higher  principles,  which 
are  despised  or  forgotten  by  the  majority.  These 
men  are  secured  by  natural  temperament,  and 
peculiar  circumstances,  from  participating  in  the* 
common  delusion :  but  if  some  other  and  deeper 
fallacy  be  invented ;  if  some  more  subtle  beast  of 
the  field  should  speak  to  them  in  wicked  flattery ; 
if  a  digest  of  intellectual  aphorisms  can  be  substi- 
tuted in  their  minds  for  a  code  of  living  truths,  and 
the  lovely  semblances  of  beauty,  truth,  affection 
can  be  made  first  to  obscure  the  presence,  and 
then  to  conceal  the  loss  of  that  religious  humility, 
without  which,  as  their  central  life,  all  these  are 
but  dreadful  shadows ;  if  so  fatal  a  stratagem  can 
be  successfully  practised,  I  see  not  what  hope 
remains  for  a  people  against  whom  the  gates  of 
hell  have  so  prevailed.  When  the  light  of  the 
body  is  darkness,  how  great  is  that  darkness  ! 
Be  this  as  it  may;  whether  the  Germans  and 
their  followers  have  or  have  not  betrayed  their 
trust,  it  seems  at  least  that  their  influence  is  on 
the  decline.  The  effects  of  what  they  have  done 
are  by  no  means  extinct ;  the  present  generation 


224   ORATION  ON  THE  INFLUENCE   OF 

is  too  much  moulded  by  their  agency  to  forget  or 
escape  it  with  ease  :  but  the  original  causes  have 
ceased  to  work,  and  the  master-workers  are  de- 
parting from  the  earth.  I  believe  the  Revolution 
of  1830  has  closed  up  the  German  era,  just  as 
the  Revolution  of  1789  closed  up  the  French 
era.  Looking  then  to  the  lurid  presages  of  the 
times  that  are  coming ;  believing  that  'amidst  the 
awful  commotions  of  society,  which  few  of  us  do 
not  expect,  —  the  disruption,  it  may  be,  of  those 
common  bands  which  hold  together  our  social 
existence,  necessarily  followed  by  an  occurrence 
on  a  larger  scale  of  the  same  things  that  were 
witnessed  in  France  forty  years  ago  ;  the  disper- 
sion of  those  decencies  and  charities  which  cus- 
tom produces  and  preserves,  that  mass  of  little 
motives,  brought  into  unity  and  constancy  of  ac- 
tion by  the  mechanism  of  daily  life,  and  far  more 
efficacious  in  restraining  civilized  man  from  much 
headlong  misery  and  crime  than  his  pride  is  apt 
readily  to  acknowledge,  —  that,  in  such  a  desola- 
tion, nothing  possibly  can  be  found  to  support  men 
but  a  true  spiritual  Christianity,  I  am  not  entire- 
ly without  hope,  that  round  such  an  element  of 
vital  light,  constrained  once  more  to  put  forth  its 
illuminating  energies  for  protection  and  deliver- 


ITALIAN  WORKS   OF  IMAGINATION.   22$ 

ance  to  its  children,  may  gather  once  again  the 
scattered  rays  of  human  knowledge.  In  those 
obscured  times,  that  followed  the  subversion  of 
Rome,  the  muses  clung  not  in  vain  for  safety  to 
the  inviolate  altars  of  the  Catholic  church.  I 
have  endeavored  to  point  out  some  of  the  won- 
derful and  beautiful  consequences  of  this  mar- 
riage of  religion  with  literature  ;  and  I  have  been 
the  more  anxious  to  do  this,  as  it  has  appeared  to 
me  by  no  means  impossible,  that  the  recurrence 
of  analogous  circumstances  may  produce,  at  no 
vast  distance  of  time,  a  recurrence  of  similar 
effects.  It  is  not  wholly  without  the  bounds  of 
probability,  that  a  purer  spirit  than  the  Roman 
Catholicism  may  animate  hereafter  a  loftier  form 
of  European  civilization.  But  should  this  be  an 
idle  dream  (and  indeed  my  own  anticipations 
seldom  incline  to  so  favorable  an  aspect)  it  will 
not  be  the  less  useful  or  important,  in  tunes 
of  unchristian  ascendency,  to  fix  our  thoughts 
habitually  t  on  that  first  development  of  modern 
literature,  which  shows  us  the  direct,  and,  as  it 
were,  natural  influence  of  our  religion  on  our 
conditions  of  society,  and  the  expression  of  this 
in  our  inquiring  thoughts  and  stirring  emotions. 
An  English  mind  that  has  drank  deep  at  the 
15 


226  ORATION  ON  WORKS  OF  IMAGINATION. 

sources  of  southern  inspiration,  and  especially 
that  is  imbued  with  the  spirit  of  the  mighty 
Florentine,  will  be  conscious  of  a  perpetual  fresh- 
ness and  quiet  beauty,  resting  on  his  imaginations 
and  spreading  gently  over  his  affections,  until,  by 
the  blessing  of  heaven,  it  may  be  absorbed  with- 
out loss,  in  the  pure  inner  light,  of  which  that 
voice  has  spoken,  as  no  other  can : 

"  Light  intellectual,  yet  full  of  love, 
Love  of  true  beauty,  therefore  full  of  joy, 
Joy,  every  other  sweetness  far  above."  * 


*  "  Luce  intellettual,  piena  d'amore, 

Amor  di  vero  ben,  pien  di  letizia, 
Letizia,  che  transcende  ogni  dolzore." 

D.   C.  Paradise,  c. 


ESSAY 


THE   PHILOSOPHICAL  WRITINGS   OP   CICERO. 


"  Ille,  decus  Latii,  magnae  spes  altera  Romas, 
Ore  effundit  opes  fandi  certissimus  auctor; 
Tantum  omnes  superans  praeclaro  munere  linguae, 
Quantum  lit  ante  alias  Romana  potentia  gentes."  — VIDA. 

[O  write  worthily  concerning  the  charac- 
ter of  Cicero,  would  be  an  undertaking, 
than  which  few  are  more  difficult,  or  more 
extensive.  For,  first,  it  is  impossible  not  to  be 
touched  with  reverence,  and  a  kind  of  religious 
awe,  when  we  look  towards  the  figure  of  any 
great  and  noble  mind,  belonging,  as  regards 
his  natural  course,  to  times  long  departed,  but 
living  among  us  all,  by  his  thoughts  perpet- 
uated in  writing,  which,  actively  circulating 
through  numberless  minds,  and  present  with- 
out difficulty  to  several  points  of  place  and  time, 
give  us  a  far  greater  impression  of  efficiency 


228     ESSAY  ON  THE  PHILOSOPHICAL 

than  any  act  whatever  (though  voluntary,  which 
these  are  not)  of  the  same  man,  Avhen  conscious 
and  .alive.  In  fact,  it  is  hardly  to  be  thought 
surprising,  that  many  should  care  for  no  immor- 
tality so  much  as  this ;  for  although  there  will 
be  no  sense,  or  pleasure  of  enjoyment  in  it, 
when  it  comes,  they  can  relish  it,  at  least,  by 
anticipation,  which  has  often  a  better  taste  than 
fruition,  and  they  may  have  full  assurance  of 
its  nature  by  observing  the  celebrity  of  other 
men.  Some  of  these  immortals,  however,  do 
not  puzzle  us  much  when,  putting  aside  the  first 
sentiments  of  wonder  and  respect,  we  step  nearer 
to  examine  with  precision  their  lineaments  and 
true  demeanor.  But  when  we  have  to  do  with 
a  mind  of  various  powers,  whose  solicitous  ac- 
tivity neither  public  business  nor  private  study 
can  exhaust,  and  which  can  steal  time  from  the 
engrossing  occupations  of  state  policy  for  the 
pursuit  of  liberal  knowledge,  and  the  commu- 
nication of  it  to  mankind,  we  find  ourselves  in- 
volved in  much  perplexity,  and  feel  that,  even 
after  some  labor  has  been  expended,  it  will  be 
little  better  than  guesswork  that  finally  strikes 
the  balance,  and  ascertains  by  relative  estima- 
tion of  unlike  qualities  his  true  station  in  the 


WRITINGS  OF  CICERO.  229 

temple  of  fame.  The  jocular  anathema,  pro- 
nounced by  Sir  Robert  Walpole  on  history  in 
general,  hits  with  peculiar  force  the  judgments 
we  form  of  motives  and  intellectual  qualities, 
things  so  curiously  complicated  in  the  reality 
of  nature,  that  our  little  knowledge  has  noth- 
ing to  ground  itself  upon  but  a  few  loose  rules 
collected  by  a  very  confined  induction  from  ex- 
ternal appearances.-  How  little,  in  fact,  does 
one  creature  know  of  another,  even  if  he  lives 
with  him,  sees  him  constantly,  and,  in  popular 
language,  knows  all  about  him !  Of  that  im- 
mense chain  ^of  mental  successions,  which  ex- 
tends from  the  cradle  to  the  death-bed,  how 
few  links,  comparatively  speaking,  are  visible  to 
any  other  person  !  Yet  from  these  fragments 
of  being  (if  the  expression  may  be  pardoned) 
you  shall  hear  one  decide  as  confidently  about 
the  unseen  and  unimagined  whole,  as  a  geolo- 
gist from  his  chip  of  stone  will  explain  the 
structure  of  the  mass  to  which  it  belonged,  and 
even  the  changes  of  fortune  which  it  has  re- 
ceived at  the  hand  of  time.  Experience,  how- 
ever, the  final  judge,  treats  these  two  specula- 
tors in  a  very  different  manner.  And  what  is 
the  reason?  Unfortunately,  human  beings  are 


230      ESSAY  ON  THE  PHILOSOPHICAL 

not  lapidary  formations :  they  are  not  even  ani- 
mals of  pure  understanding,  which  might  come 
near  it  :  their  microcosm  is  as  infinite  in  its 
forms  as  the  world  without  us,  and  in  one,  as 
in  the  other,  we  must  obey  the  laws  by  obser- 
vation and  experiment,  before  we  can  venture 
to  command  the  elements  by  arbitrary  combi- 
nation. A  question  may  be  raised,  whether,  if 
the  veil  that-  obscures  other  existence  from  view 
were  altogether  removed,  and  that  mode  of  im- 
mediate vision  became  usual,  which  Rousseau* 
fancied  was  more  conceivable  than  the  commu- 
nication of  motion  by  impact,  we  should,  after  all, 
derive  much  benefit  from  the  change.  But 
there  can  be  no  doubt  it  would  wonderfully 
alter  for  the  better  our  histories  and  biographi- 
cal memoirs,  and  would  effect  a  prodigious  shift- 
ing of  place  among  many  worthies  who  are  set 
high,  or  low,  without  much  warrant,  according 
to  our  present  system  of  knowledge. 

This  Essay,  however,  has  no  such  ambitious 
aim,  as  to  include  the  whole  character  of  Cicero 
within  the  scope  of  its  observations.  It  is  in- 
tended only  to  take  a  brief  survey  of  one  ele- 
ment in  his  diversified  genius,  the  philosophical ; 
*  See  Nouvette  HekHae. 


WRITINGS   OF  CICERO.  231 

but  it  will  be  difficult  to  mark  the  limits  of  this 
without  an  occasional  glance  at  those  other  qual- 
ities, by  which  it  is  bounded,  and  which  some- 
times curiously  intersect  it.  This  will  be  evi- 
dent if  we  consider  that  a  question  concerning 
the  merits  of  Ciceronian  philosophy  naturally 
resolves  itself  into  two  parts.  In  what  tenyoer 
of  mind,  it  should  first  be  asked,  did  Cicero 
come  to  form  and  deliver  his  opinions  ?  And, 
secondly,  what  those  opinions  were  ?  Now  the 
first  of  these  is,  beyond  comparison,  the  most 
interesting  and  important.  A  man,  it  has  been 
well  said,  "  is  always  other  and  more  than  his 
opinions."  To  understand  something  of  the  pre- 
dispositions in  any  mind,  is  to  occupy  a  height 
of  vantage,  from  which  we  may  more  clearly 
perceive  the  true  bearings  of  his  thoughts,  than 
was  possible  for  a  spectator  on  the  level.  By 
knowing  how  much  a  man  loves  truth,  we  learn 
how  far  he  is  likely  to  teach  it  us :  by  ascer- 
taining the  special  bent  of  his  passions  and  habits, 
we  are  on  our  guard  against  giving  that  credit 
to  conclusions  in  favor  of  them,  which  our  no- 
tion of  his  discernment  might  otherwise  incline 
us  to  give.  But  there  is  more  than  this.  The 
inward  life  of  a  great  man,  the  sum  total  of  his 


232     ESSAY  ON  THE  PHILOSOPHICAL 

impressions,  customs,  sentiments,  gradual  proc- 
esses of  thought,  rapid  suggestions,  and  the 
like,  contains  a  far  greater  truth,  both  in  extent 
and  in  magnitude,  than  all  the  fixed  and  posi- 
tive forms  of  belief  that  occupy  the  front-row 
in  his  understanding.  It  is  more  our  interest 
to  l^now  the  first,  for  we  know  more  in  know- 
ing it,  and  are  brought  by  it  into  closer  con- 
tact with  real  greatness.  Opinion  is  often  the 
product  of  an  exhausted,  not  an  energetic  con- 
dition of  mind :  a  few  thoughts  are  sufficient  to 
make  up  many  opinions,  and  though  these  are 
always  in  some  proportion  to  the  degree  of  ele- 
vation allotted  to  their  parent-mind,  they  are 
seldom,  perhaps,  its  certain  measure. 

In  the  instance  we  have  now  to  consider,  many 
such  predisposing  influences  will  occur  to  the 
most  careless  observer.  Cicero  was  a  Roman, 
and  we  must  view  him  with  reference  to  the 
circumstances  of  Roman  life,  and  the  peculiar 
tendencies  of  its  national  feeling.  He  was  a 
Roman  statesman,  and  we  must  not  forget  the 
absorbing  interest  of  politics  in  his  time,  and 
country,  while  we  estimate  the  value  he  set 
on  the  calmer  studies  of  his  retirement.  He 
was  also  a  Roman  gentleman,  fond  of  social 


WRITINGS  OF  CICERO.  233 

life,  and  capable  of  guiding  and  adorning  its 
movements  :  lie  had  elevated  his  family  and 
name,  by  his  own  indefatigable  exertions,  from 
the  ranks  of  provincial  society ;  and  was  nat- 
urally ambitious  of  that  life  of  literary  brilliance 
which  had  already  superseded  in  public  esti- 
mation the  honors  of  patrician  birth,  and  was 
beginning  to  vie  with  the  more  substantial  rev- 
erence paid  to  high  dignities  and  large  posses- 
sions. Above  all,  he  was,  by  long  habit  and 
peculiar  genius,  a  Roman  orator,  accustomed 
alike  to  the  grave  deliberations  of  the  senate 
and  the  impassioned  pleadings  of  the  forum. 
All  these  influences  (and  some  of  them  were 
not  a  little  feverish  and  disturbing)  he  carried 
with  him  into  the  quiet  fields  and  lucid  atmos- 
phere of  philosophy.  Whether  he  agitated  that 
region  by  what  he  brought,  more  than  he  bene- 
fited himself,  and  through  himself  the  world, 
by  what  he  found,  is  an  inquiry  which  may 
prove  entertaining  and  useful,  and  which  we 
shall  be  better  able  to  bring  to  a  satisfactory 
conclusion  when  we  have  considered  rather 
more  at  length  the  relation  of  these  previous 
tendencies  to  the  investigation  and  discovery 
of  truth. 


234     ESSAY  ON  THE  PHILOSOPHICAL 

It  has  been  a  favorite  notion  with  those  mod- 
ern writers,  who  are  fond  of  considering  the 
unity  of  mood,  produced  by  a  constant  action 
of  similar  circumstances  on  the  mind  of  a  nation, 
in  rather  an  abstract  point  of  view,  that  the  Ro- 
mans represent  the  political,  as  the  Greeks  did 
the  individual  development  of  human  intelli- 
gence and  energy.  Whatever  objections  may 
lie  against  forms  of  expression,  which,  when 
habitually  applied  by  speculators  on  history,  are 
apt  to  mislead  by  a  frequently  recurring  appear- 
ance of  system,  always  seductive  to  the  imagina- 
tion, but  proportionably  dangerous  to  the  ob- 
serving intellect,  it  seems  impossible  to  deny 
that  much  truth  is  contained  in  this  remark. 
It  is  not  of  course  meant,  that  the  institutions 
of  social  convention  did  not  attain  a  singular 
degree  of  perfection  among  the  Grecian  states, 
or  that  their  complexion  was  not  generally  fa- 
vorable to  the  cultivation  of  individual  genius ; 
but  simply  that  no  strong  national  spirit  impelled 
the  Greeks  to  national  aggrandizement  as  the 
paramount  object  of  their  activity,  which  was  the 
case  with  the  conquering  people  who  succeeded 
them  in  the  career  of  civilization.  A  country 
of  small  republics,  perpetually  at  strife  with  each 


WRITINGS  OF  CICERO.  235 

other,  had  little  unity  of  aim,  except  when  men- 
aced by  barbarian  inroads.  Patriotism,  indeed, 
was  raised  high  in  the  scale  of  duties,  and  on 
the  same  plea  that  "  omnes  omnium  caritates 
patria  complectitur,"  the  same  energy  was  ex- 
erted for  the  public  good,  which  afterwards,  on 
a  larger  theatre,  enforced  the  admiring  submis- 
sion of  mankind.  But  the  public  sympathies  of 
the  Athenian  were  opposed  to  those  of  the  Lace- 
demonian, and  no  single  city  threatened  to  ab- 
sorb the  world  into  the  greatness  of  its  name. 
The  fascination  of  that  name  was  wanting,  and 
the  sense  of  favoring  destiny,  which  in  the 
thought  of  every  Roman  blended  his  proud  rec- 
ollections of  past  triumph  with  the  confident  hope 
of  an  equally  subservient  future.  Nor  do  we 
find  that,  where  the  bonds  of  Grecian  polity 
were  strongest,  the  vigor  of  literary  genius  was 
most  conspicuous  or  effective.  The  severer,  as 
well  as  the  lighter  Muses,  fled  from  the  walls 
of  Sparta ;  for  the  patronage,  extended  by  Ly- 
curgus  to  the  shade  of  Homer,  failed  to  kindle 
the  finer  sentiments  among  the  subjects  of  his 
legislation.  On  the  other  side  (if  we  except 
the  dramatic  poets,  whose  local  attachments 
were  naturally  strengthened  by  the  necessities 


236     ESSAY  ON  THE  PHILOSOPHICAL 

of  their  art),  no  strong  sympathy  with  national 
advance  or  decline  seems,  nnder  climates  more 
congenial  to  art  and  knowledge,  to  have  in- 
spired the  eminent  leaders  of  human  thought. 
Pindar  attended  on  a  court  ;  Plato  could  ex- 
change the  liberal  air  of  Athens  for  the  atmos- 

O 

phere  of  Syracusan  tyranny  :  Aristotle,*  "  the 
soul  of  the  academy,"  was  attached  to  it  only 
by  the  life  of  its  founder,  and  turned  content- 
edly, after  his  death,  to  the  court  of  Hermeas, 
and  the  counsels  of  Macedonian  oppression. 
This  comparative  laxity  of  civil  ties,  owing 
perhaps  in  some  measure  to  the  capricious  na- 
ture of  those  "  fierce  democraties  "  which  made 
political  eminence  less  desirable,  because  less 
secure,  was  conducive  to  that  depth  of  medita- 
tion and  comprehensiveness  of  views,  which 
carried  the  Grecian  spirit  to  heights  of  excel- 
lence, that  will  exercise  the  wondering  gaze  of 
our  latest  posterity.  The  sculptors  and  poets 
were  left  free  to  enjoy  the  unlimited  inspiration 
of  natural  beauties,  which  are  not  of  this  age, 
or  of  that  empire,  but  everlasting,  and  complete 
in  themselves  as  the  ideas  they  produce  in  the 

*  "  'O  vovf  TTjf  diarpiftiif,"  was  the  appellation  given  by  Plato 
to  his  future  rival. 


WRITINGS   OF   CICERO.  237 

meditative  artist,  who  has  a  higher  standard  of 
perfection  within  him  than  the  most  glorious  of 
recollected  names  —  a  Fabricius,  a  Brutus,  or  a 
Numa.  Whatever  elevation  the  contemplative 
and  creative  parts  of  our  nature  were  fitted  to 
attain,  when  left  to  the  free  exercise  of  their 
own  functions,  neither  restrained,  and,  as  it 
were,  overlaid  by  a  bond  of  national  feeling  in- 
tent on  national  glory,  nor  deriving  an  auxiliar, 
yet  heterogeneous  force  from  the  diffusion  of  a 
spiritual  faith  ;  such  elevation,  we  may  safely 
say,  was  attained  by  the  Greeks.  The  fair  in- 
ventions of  their  art,  the  pure  deductions  of 
their  science,  all  the  curious  and  splendid  com- 
binations of  thought,  which  arise  from  the  habit 
of  viewing  the  circumstances  of  man  in  the 
single  light  of  poetic  beauty,  or  according  to 
distinct  forms  of  intellectual  congruity,  remain 
to  us  in  their  precious  literature,  and  attest 
how  clear,  how  serene,  how  majestically  in- 
dependent of  merely  local  and  temporary  views, 
was  the  genius  of  ancient  Greece,  who  laid  the 
honey  on  the  lips  of  Plato,  and  raised  the  tem- 
ple of  the  graces  within  the  bosom  of  Sopho- 
cles. 

Everything  in  the  Roman  character  was  the 


238      ESSAY  ON  THE  PHILOSOPHICAL 

reverse  of  this,  and  announced  to  attentive  re- 
flection a  different  destiny,  and  a  new  evolution 
of  mental  nature.  Sprung  from  the  embrace 
of  Mars,  this  people  of  determined  warriors 
rose  by  slow  degrees  to  an  universal  dominion, 
and  every  separate  will,  that  came  into  action 
under  the  auspices  of  their  patron  god,  seemed 
to  bend  itself  by  spontaneous  impulse  to  fulfil 
his  overruling  intention  and  redeem  his  early 
promise.  The  infancy  of  Rome  was  nourished 
by  a  martial  and  religious  poetry,  which  be- 
came extinct  when  the  season  of  extended  ac- 
tion arrived.  Then  the  lessons  taught  and 
matured  in  probationary  struggles  with  the 
brave  Italian  populations  were  applied  to  a  tre- 
mendous battle  against  the  several  supremacies 
of  Europe  ;  and,  the  scabbard  being  thrown 
away,  that  sword  was  displayed  in  irresistible 
splendor,  which  for  a  space  of  centuries  was  to 
tame  the  haughty  and  proudly  spare  the  sup- 
pliant. Such  was,  throughout,  the  consistency 
of  their  progress,  that  all  their  institutions  and 
customs  bore  the  impress  of  one  ruling  idea  ; 
and  insensate  things  seemed  to  unite  with  hu- 
man volitions  in  a  glad  furtherance  of  the  glo- 
rious race.  The  paths  of  scientific  discovery 


WRITINGS  OF  CICERO.  239 

and  secluded  imagination  were  naturally  un- 
heeded by  minds  so  strongly  possessed  with 
notions  of  "  pride,  pomp,  and  circumstance." 
Their  ordinary  pursuits  were  practical,  and 
their  highest  aims  political.  They  had  no 
original  literature,  and  they  did  not  feel  the 
want.  There  was  much  vigorous  conception, 
hut  it  all  went  into  the  outward  world,  the 
empire  of  their  triumphant  will.*  When,  at 
length,  conquest  brought  luxury  in  its  train, 
and  artificial  appetites  sprang  from  the  excess 
of  social  stimulus,  the  graces  of  a  foreign  lan- 

*  "  The  austere  frugality  of  the  ancient  republicans,  their  care- 
lessness about  the  possessions  and  the  pleasures  of  wealth,  the 
strict  regard  for  law  among  the  people,  its  universal  and  steadfast 
loyalty  during  the  happy  centuries  when  the  constitution,  after  the 
pretensions  of  the  aristocracy  had  been  curbed,  were  flourishing  in 
its  full  perfection,  the  sound  feeling  which  never,  amid  internal 
discord,  allowed  of  an  appeal  to  foreign  interference,  the  absolute 
empire  of  the  laws  and  customs,  and  the  steadiness  with  which, 
nevertheless,  whatever  in  them  was  no  longer  expedient,  was 
amended,  the  wisdom  of  the  constitution,  the  ideal  perfection  of 
fortitude,  realized  in  the  citizens  and  in  the  state;  all  these  quali- 
ties unquestionably  excite  a  feeling  of  reverence  which  cannot 
equally  be  awakened  by  the  contemplation  of  any  other  people." 
This  summary  of  Roman  virtues  is  extracted  from  the  work  of 
a  philosophic  historian,  who  proceeds  to  fill  the  opposite  scale,  and 
to  mark  out  their  vices  with  a  wise  impartiality.  —  See  NIEBUHR. 
Lecture,  prefixed  to  second  edition  of  Translation,  Hare  and  Thirl- 
wall.  p.  26. 


240     ESSAY  ON  THE  PHILOSOPHICAL 

guage  were  first  sought  to  supply  a  fashiona- 
ble gratification,  and  soon  produced  their  emol- 
lient effects  of  taste  and  refined  pleasure  ;  but 
they  never  touched  the  ground  of  character,* 
which  was  far  too  solidly  fixed  to  admit  of 
change  from  superinduction.  Systems  of  phil- 
osophy were  imported  for  the  amusement  and 
use  of  a  highly  civilized  population  ;  but  amidst 
much  ingenious  discussion  and  collision  of  opin- 
ions, no  sparks  of  strong  philosophic  thought 
were  elicited  ;  and  those  chasms  in  knowledge, 
which  were  left  obscure  by  the  burning  lights 
of  elder  science,  received  no  new  illumination 
from  the  masters  of  the  earth.  If  the  obstacles 
to  the  rise  of  an  original  philosophy,  grounded 
on  the  intrinsic  character  of  the  Romans,  may 
fairly  seem  insuperable,  they  must  doubtless  be 
considered  as  deriving  an  immense  accession  of 
force  from  the  peculiar  condition  of  the  re- 
public in  the  age  of  Cicero.  Corruption  had 
reached  the  heart  of  the  state  ;  the  few,  in 
whom  the  lifeblood  of  patriotism  still  circu- 
lated, felt  the  indispensable  importance  and  aw- 

*  Lucretius  and  Catullus  are  the  confirming  exceptions.  That 
must  indeed  be  a  barren  and  fetid  soil,  in  which  poetry  cannot 
strike  a  single  root. 


WRITINGS  OF  CICERO.        ,       241 

ful  interest  attached  to  an  active  life  :  the  larger 
number,  with  whom  a  superficial  acquaintance 
with  theories,  nicknamed  philosophical  knowl- 
edge, served  as  an  excuse  for  indolence,  or  a 
varnish  for  vice,  were  constitutionally  disqual- 
ified for  the  keen  intuition  of  truth,  and  the 
generous  mood  of  enthusiasm,  in  which  sugges- 
tion strikes  the  mind  like  inspiration.  The 
Greek  teachers,  from  whom  their  little  learn- 
ing was  immediately  derived,  were  very  unlike 
that  former  race,  the  Ocoi  TroAcuoi  of  philosophy. 
There  were  exceptions,  perhaps,  at  all  events 
there  were  degrees  of  merit  :  a  Posidonius,* 
or  a  Panaetius,  is  not  to  be  classed  with  the  vul- 
gar herd  of  sophists.  But  the  general  differ- 
ence was  too  manifest  to  be  mistaken  :  what 
in  the  hands  of  Plato  had  been  an  art,  in  those 
of  Aristotle  a  science,  was  now  become  an 
easy  trade.  A  minute  fastidious  casuistry  sup- 
plied the  place  of  that  reasoning,  and  that 
"  Kpei-rrov  n  Xoyov,"  which  sought  to  elevate 
mankind  to  the  level  of  true  wisdom  by  an 
assiduous  cultivation  of  sentiments  possessed  by 

*  Was  it  not  a  fine  acknowledgment  of  the  inherent  supremacy 
of  wisdom,  when  the  imperatorial  fasces  were  lowered  by  com- 
mand of  Pompey,  before  the  person  of  Posidonius? 
16 


242     ESSAY  ON  THE  PHILOSOPHICAL 

all,  at  least  in  the  germ ;  sentiments,  by  whose 
action  on  a  plastic  imagination  the  most  beauti- 
ful phenomena  of  mental  combination  are  elic- 
ited, and  a  jnass  of  desires  and  hopes  receive 
their  form  and  constitution,  whose  luminous 
nature  repels  the  darkness  of  the  grave.  Wiser 
in  their  own  generation  than  the  children  of 
light,  these  new  instructors  readily  yielded  to 
the  prevalent  temper  of  their  age ;  and  while 
they  flattered  the  reigning  profligacy  of  man- 
ners, by  relegating  morality  into  the  arid  re- 
gions of  rules,  maxims,  and  verbal  distinctions, 
they  effectually  secured  the  profits  and  reputa- 
tion of  their  own  vagabond  profession.  The 
general  tendency  of  men's  minds  at  this  mo- 
mentous era,  was  unquestionably  towards  a 
sceptical  indifference  ;  such  must  ever  be  the 
effect  of  degenerate  institutions  and  corrupted 
manners,  accompanied  with  great  operative  en- 
ergy in  the  machine  of  the  state,  and  an  habit- 
ual reliance  of  almost  every  individual  mind  on 
external  and  transitory  things,  the  vicissitudes 
of  fortune,  and  the  obligations  of  palpable  inter- 
est. It  was  an  unbelieving  age,  and  none  who 
lived  within  its  term  escaped  altogether  the  con- 
tagion. In  periods  of  this  description,  the  aphe- 


WRITINGS  OF  CICERO.  243 

lia  of  national  existence,  some  will  generally  be 
found  who  withstand  to  a  certain  extent  the  pre- 
dominant tendency,  and  attest  to  a  future  genera- 
tion the  inherent  dignity  of  our  nature.  Their 
efforts  are  limited,  and  their  self-elevation  is  not 
constant ;  yet  they  are  green  places  in  the  moral 
wilderness  on  which  our  thoughts  should  delight 
to  linger. 

If  there  be  any  truth  in  these  observations, 
we  should  expect,  a  priori,  what  the  examina- 
tion of  his  writings  will  abundantly  demon- 
strate, that  the  expressed  mind  of  Cicero  would 
exhibit  signatures  of  both  these  impressions  ; 
the  general  impression,  I  mean,  of  national  pre- 
dilections, and  active,  external  tendencies  of 
thought ;  and  that  particular  impression,  origi- 
nating in  the  character  of  the  times,  and  leading 
to  disputation  about  prevailing  opinions,  rather 
than  independent  research,  to  pulling  down  in 
the  spirit  of  incredulity,  without  attempting  to 
reconstruct  in  a  temper  of  faith.  But  we  could 
not  have  told  beforehand,  that  he  would  be  in- 
cluded in  that  small  class  of  partial  exceptions 
I  have  mentioned,  and  that  the  scepticism  he 
shared  with  many  was  tinged  and  modified  by 
a  genial  warmth,  which  was  peculiarly  his  own. 


244     ESSAY  ON  THE  PHILOSOPHICAL 

Sometimes  a  disciple  of  Carneades,  sometimes  of 
Plato,  he  varies  the  tone  of  his  language  accord- 
ing to  the  alternate  moods  that  possess  him.  In 
a  memorable  passage  he  owns,  that  to  preserve 
the  fair  proportions  of  his  moral  edifice,  it  was 
necessary  to  keep  out  of  thought  and  mention, 
"  harum  perturbatricem  omnium  academiam." 

I  shall  now  consider  a  characteristic  of  Cic- 
ero's disposition,  which  was  more  dependent  on 
himself,  and  the  traces  of  which  are  everywhere 
perceptible  in  his  life  and  writings.  Whatever 
he  thought,  whatever  he  experienced,  assumed 
with  him  an  oratorical  form.  Truth  had  few 

*  "  Exoremus  ut  sileat,"  he  continues,  "  nam  si  invaserit  in 
haac  quae  satis  scite  instructa  et  composita  videantur,  nlmis  edet 
minus,  quam  quidem  ego  PLACARE  cupio,  SUBMOVERE 
NON  AUDEO."  — De  Legibus,  i.  13.  The  principles  of  the 
Academic  sect,  "  hsec  ab  Arcesila  et  Carneade  recens,"  are  un- 
folded in  the  books  of  Academic  Questions,  and  those  De  Natura- 
Deorum.  In  the  Offices,  1.  ii.  c.  2,  he  thus  briefly  expresses 
them :  "  Non  sumus  ii  quorum  vagetur  mens  errore,  nee  habeat 
unquam,  quod  sequatur:  quae  enim  esset  ista  mens,  vel  qua  vita 
potius,  non  solum  disputandi,  sed  etiam  vivendi  ratione  sublata  ? 
Nos  autem,  ut  ceteri,  qui  alia  certa,  alia  incerta  esse  dicunt,  sic 
ab  his  dissentientes  alia  probabilia,  contra  alia  improbabilia  esse 
dicimus."  Aulus  Gellius,  in  a  jesting  manner,  explains  the  dif- 
ference between  the  Tyrrhenians  and  these  Academics.  "  The 
latter,"  he  says,  were  certain  the}'  could  know  nothing;  the  former 
were  not  more  certain  of  that  than  anything  else!  " 


WRITINGS   OF  CICERO.  245 

charms  for  him,  unadorned  and  aim)  K.O&  avryv ; 
he  delighted,  indeed,  in  the  analogies  which  rea- 
son presents  ;  but  it  was  because  they  are  sus- 
ceptible of  brilliant  coloring  and  emphatic  dis- 
play. Once,  when  undergoing  the  misery  of 
exile,  and  disgusted  for  a  time  with  the  bold 
game  he  had  been  playing  with  the  passions 
and  habits  that  had  made  him  what  he  was,  he 
besought  his  friends  "  ut  non  oratorem  se,  sed 
philosophum  appellarent,  nam  se  philosophiam, 
ut  rem  sibi  proposuisse,  arte  oratoria,  tanquam 
instrumento,  in  rebus  publicis  tractandis  uti."  * 
Other  times  brought  another  language ;  and,  in 
direct  contradiction  to  the  above,  he  has  de- 
clared, in  more  than  one  passage, f  what  the 
internal  evidence  of  his  life  and  writings  was 
amply  sufficient  to  establish,  that  he  learned 
philosophy  "  eloquentiae  gratia." 

Much  as  has  been  said,  since  the  idols  were 
first  stricken  in  the  temple  by  the  commissioned 
hand  of  Bacon,  about  the  mischief  of  substitut- 
ing poetical  illustration  for  real  cohesion  of  truth 
to  truth,  it  may  perhaps  be  found,  on  examina- 
tion, that  a  rhetorical  spirit  is  a  more  dangerous 

*  See  BKUCKKR,  Hist.  Philosophy  vol.  ii.  p.  39,  and  his  reference 
to  Plutarch. 

t  See  Proem.  Paradox.,  Orator,  sub.  init,  Tusc.  Qusest,  2,  3. 


246     ESSAY  ON  THE  PHILOSOPHICAL 

intruder.  Poetry,  indeed,  is  seductive  by  ex- 
citing in  us  that  mood  of  feeling,  which  conjoins 
all  mental  states,  that  pass  in  review  before  it, 
according  to  congruity  of  sentiment,  not  agree- 
ment of  conceptions  :  and  it  is  with  justice, 
therefore,  that  the  Muses  are  condemned  by  the 
genius  of  a  profound  philosophy.  But  though 
poetry  encourages  a  wrong  condition  of  feeling 
with  respect  to  the  discovery  of  truth,  its  en- 
chantments tend  to  keep  the  mind  within  that 
circle  of  contemplative  enjoyment,  which  is  not 
less  indispensably  necessary  to  the  exertions  of  a 
philosophic  spirit.  We  may  be  led  wrong  by 
the  sorcery ;  but  that  wrong  is  contiguous  to  the 
right.  Now  it  is  part  of  our  idea  and  descrip- 
tion of  oratory,  that  it  appeals  to  the  active  func- 
tions of  our  nature.  It  is  the  bringing  of  one 
man's  mind  to  bear  upon  another  man's  will. 
We  call  up  our  scattered  knowledge,  we  arrange 
our  various  powers  of  feeling,  we  select  and  mar- 
shal the  objects  of  our  observation,  and  then  we 
combine  them  under  the  command  of  one  strong 
impulse,  and  concentre  their  operations  upon 
one  point.  That  point  is  in  every  instance  some 
change  in  the  views,  and  some  corresponding  as- 
sent in  the  will  of  the  person,  or  persons,  whom 


WRITINGS   OF  CICERO.  247 

we  address.  Thus  we  are  transported  entirely 
out  of  the  sphere  of  contemplation,  and  are  sub- 
mitted to  the  guidance  of  a  new  set  of  passions, 
far  more  vehement,  confused,  and  perplexing, 
than  those  pure  desires  that  elevate  the  soul  to- 
wards the  "  OI/TWS  OVTCI,"  because  they  have  far 
more  immediate  control  over  individual -futurity, 
and  are  much  more  concerned  with  the  repre- 
sentations of  the  senses.  I  do  not  mean  to  deny 
that  the  vivid  impression  of  truth  is  naturally  ac- 
companied by  its  eloquent  utterance.  Wherever 
there  is  strong  emotion,  there  will  be  always 
a  corresponding  vigor  of  expression,  unless  the 
channel  between  thought  and  language  happens 
to  be  obstructed  by  peculiar  causes.  But  elo- 
quence is  spread  abroad  among  mankind,  while 
oratory  is  the  portion  of  a  few.  The  one  is  the 
immediate  voice  of  nature,  and  derives  its  charm 
from  momentary  impulse  ;  the  other  is  an  art, 
circumscribed  by  definite  laws  which  have  their 
origin  in  the  creative  power  of  genius.  Excited 
in  the  first  instance  by  our  social  instincts,  the 
faculty  of  speech  has  become  to  civilized  man  a 
source  of  independent  pleasure,  which  mingles 
with,  or  rather  constitutes,  the  delight  of  his  soli- 
tary reveries  and  intellectual  meditations.  In 


248     ESSAY  ON  THE  PHILOSOPHICAL 

proportion  to  the  refinement  of  his  feeling,  the 
liveliness  of  his  mental  images,  and  the  varieties 
of  knowledge  treasured  up  in  memory,  will  be 
the  graceful  forms  and  multiplied  combinations 
of  his  internal  language.  But  as  regards  him- 
self, if  he  has  in  any  degree  the  power  of  search- 
ing out.  the  relations  of  things  by  intellectual 
application,  he  will  not  suffer  his  trains  of  active 
thought  to  be  trenched  upon  by  those  arrange- 
ments of  diction,  whose  place  is  posterior  to 
thought  in  natural  order,  and  which  appear  to 
confer  on  the  mind  that  forms  them  a  kind  of 
recompense  for  its  keener  labors  of  introspection. 
When  again  his  eloquence  is  directed  to  others, 
a  man  of  this  description  is  too  sensible  of  that 
truth,  or  belief,  of  which  it  is  the  spontaneous 
overflow,  to  have  any  reflex  action  of  thought  on 
his  own  relative  position,  and  the  power  which  he 
may  exert  to  mould  the  determinations  of  those 
whom  he  addresses.  He  seeks  to  persuade,  but 
it  is  because  he  is  persuaded,  and  requires  the 
concurrence  of  sympathy.  He  may  lead  his  fel- 
low-creatures from  the  truth ;  but  this  chance  is 
unavoidable,  so  long  as  words  are  our  only  signs 
of  notions  and  media  of  reasoning.  Still  every- 
thing has  occupied  its  right  place  :  the  faculties 


WRITINGS   OF   CICERO.  249 

have  had  free  play,  and  each  has  kept  clear  of 
the  other.  But  in  a  mind,  whose  conformation 
is  oratorical,  the  whole  process  is  in  danger  of 
being  inverted  and  confused.  The  orator  mis- 
takes the  suggestion  of  his  art  for  the  analogies 
of  solid  reason.  He  begins  by  arguing  where  he 
ouojit  to  infer,  and  thus  deceives  himself.  Then 

O  ' 

he  pleads  when  he  ought  to  state,  and  thus  de- 
ceives others.  There  is  little  danger,  indeed, 
that  an  orator  of  the  highest  order,  —  a  man, 
who  not  only  feels  the  dignity  of  the  mission 
which  he  fulfils,  but  who,  from  the  clearness  and 
multiplicity  and  uniform  direction  of  his  rapid 
ideas,  acquires  that  intuitive  and  comprehen- 
sive intelligence,  which  by  condensing,  and,  as  it 
were,  fusing  his  powers,  almost  seems  to  commu- 
nicate to  his  soul  a  larger  portion  of  existence, — 
there  is  little  danger  that  such  a  man  will  relin- 
quish his  art,  will  leave  this  high  mode  of  vision 
and  power,  will  descend,  as  into  plains  and  val- 
leys, to  the  methods  of  ordinary  knowledge,  or 
(which  is  least  probable)  will  transfer  his  atten- 
tion to  a  new  province  of  the  higher  intellect, 
the  character  of  which  is  dissimilar,  and  requires 
capacities  not  moulded  like  his  own.  Let  a  man 
but  enter  deep  into  his  favorite  art,  and  he  is  not 


250     ESSAY  ON  THE  PHILOSOPHICAL 

likely  to  make  use  of  it  to  subvert  the  laws,  or 
tarnish  the  qualities,  of  any  other  mental  pursuit. 
Every  art  is  the  application  of  knowledge  to  some 
definite  end;  but  the  ends  are  many,  and  the 
methods  are  distinct.  The  fine  or  imaginative 
arts  —  painting,  sculpture,  music,  and  poetry  — 
have  for  their  end  the  production  of  a  mood  of 
delightful  contemplation  with  the  sense  of  beauty. 
A  vivid  impression  of  some  mental  state,  as  beau- 
tiful, tends  to  bring  in  a  train  of  associated  states, 
which  will  all  be  under  the  same  mood  of  lively 
emotion,  as  the  first  in  the  train.  If  we  change 
the  character  of  the  mood,  the  continuity  of  as- 
sociation wih1  be  broken,  and  there  is  nothing  so 
disagreeable  to  the  mind  as  any  such  interrup- 
tion. Hence,  if,  while  the  mind  is  delineating  its 
own  previous  states  under  the  influence  of  some 
particular  mood,  any  object  is  presented  by  casual 
association,  the  tendency  of  which  is  to  excite 
feelings  not  congenial  to  that  which  has  taken 
possession  of  the  mind,  there  arises  a  perception 
of  unfitness,  and  the  object  is  rejected.  This  is 
the  subtle  law  of  Taste,  that  exists  in  the  cre- 
ative artist  as  a  sort  of  conscience,  against  which 
his  will  may  trespass,  but  his  judgment  cannot 
rebel.  The  same  law  is  absolute  for  the  orator : 


WRITINGS  OF  CICERO.  251 

but  the  difference  in  his  case  results  from  the  dif- 
ference of  his  aim,  and,  consequently,  of  his  ma- 
terials. He,  too,  resigns  himself  to  one  luminous 
mood,  which  extends  its  radiance  over  succes- 
sive states,  and  is  unwilling  to  admit  any  form  of 
mental  existence,  besides  itself.  But  his  aim  is 
the  commotion  of  will,  not  the  production  of 
beauty.  This,  therefore,  is  the  bearing  of  the 
emotion  that  casts  an  awakening  light  over  his 
mind :  by  their  analogy  to  this  leading  senti- 
ment, the  hosts  of  Suggestion  are  judged ;  and 
from  a  variety,  thus  harmonized,  results  the  dis- 
tinctive unity  of  his  art.  But  the  number  of 
pure  artists  is  small :  few  souls  are  so  finely  tem- 
pered as  to  preserve  the  delicacy  of  meditative 
feeling,  untainted  by  the  allurements  of  acci- 
dental suggestion.  The  voice  of  the  critical  con- 
science is  still  and  small,  like  that  of  the  moral : 
it  cannot  entirely  be  stifled  where  it  has  been 
heard,  but  it  may  be  disobeyed.  Temptations 
are  never  wanting :  some  immediate  and  tem- 
porary effect  can  be  produced  at  less  expense  of 
inward  exertion  than  the  high  and  more  ideal 
effect  which  art  demands  :  it  is  much  easier  to 
pander  to  the  ordinary,  and  often  recurring  wish 
for  excitement,  than  to  promote  the  rare  and  dif- 


252     ESSAY  ON  THE  PHILOSOPHICAL 

ficult  intuition  of  beauty.  To  raise  the  many  to 
his  own  real  point  of  view,  the  artist  must  em- 
ploy his  energies,  and  create  energy  in  others : 
to  descend  to  their  position  is  less  noble,  but 
practicable  with  ease.  If  I  may  be  allowed  the 
metaphor,  one  partakes  of  the  nature  of  redemp- 
tive power;  the  other,  of  that  self-abased  and 
degenerate  will,  which  "flung  from  his  splen- 
dors" the  fairest  star  in  heaven.  They  who 
debase,  in  this  manner,  the  persuasive  art,  are 
commonly  called  rhetoricians,  not  orators.  They 
speak  for  immediate  effect,  careless  how  it  is  pro- 
duced. They  never  measure  existing  circum- 
stances by  the  relations  of  the  iriOavov,  internally 
perceived.  In  the  mind  of  the  true  orator, 
all  accidents  of  place  and  time  seem  to  be  at- 
tracted to  the  magnetic  force  of  his  conceptions, 
which  have  an  order  of  their  own,  not  wholly 
dependent  on  the  observation  of  the  moment. 
But  the  rhetorician  makes  himself  the  servant 
of  circumstances,  and  yet,  after  all,  cannot  pene- 
trate their  meaning.  His  examination  is  close 
and  coarse,  and  he  sees  little,  in  his  hurry  to  see 
better ;  the  orator  stands  upon  a  height,  and  com-  , 
mands  the  whole  prospect,  and  can  modify  his 
view  by  the  lens  of  genius.  Between  the  pure 


WRITINGS   OF  CICERO.  253 

orator  and  the  mere  rhetorician  many  shades  of 
mixture  intervene.  To  degrade  that  powerful 
mind,  which  in  its  maturity  of  vigor  uttered 
"  tonitrua  magis  quam  verba  "  against  the  des- 
perate Catiline,  and  whose  later  age  produced 
the  ;t  divina  Philippica,"  to  the  lowest  of  these 
ranks,  would  be  to  pass  sentence  on  my  own 
judgment :  but  I  must  hesitate,  even  against  the 
opinion  of  many  wise  men,  before  I  consent  to 
elevate  him  to  the  highest.  The  loftier  powers 
of  imagination  were  altogether  wanting.  There 

Q  O  O 

was  none  of  the  vivid  painting  and  instinctive 
sublimity,  which  make  Demosthenes  the  model 
of  ages.  His  happiest  efforts  are  efforts  still ; 
the  process  of  intellectual  construction  is  always 
palpable  ;  and  though  the  ingenuity  may  be  won- 
derful, and  command  our  high  approbation,  our 
minds  have  in  reserve  something  higher  than 
approbation,  and  ingenuity  will  not  call  it  forth. 
Cicero  won,  and  ruled  his  audience,  not  by 
flashes  of  inspiration,  but  by  industrious  thought. 
The  thoughts  were  not  wonderful  in  themselves, 
were  not  born  one  out  of  another  by  a  genera- 
tion so  rapid  as  to  seem  mysterious ;  but  were 
accumulated  by  separate  exertions  of  will,  and 
produced  their  effect  by  the  gross  amount  of 


254      ESSAY  ON   THE  PHILOSOPHICAL 

numberless  deliberations.  Where  understanding 
is  more  active  in  production  than  feeling,  the 
predominance  of  rhetoric  (to  use  the  word  "  in 
malam  partem  ")  over  true  oratory  is  the  certain 
result.  But  when  this  happens  to  any  mind,  it 
will  be  no  easy  matter  to  restrain  this  predomi- 
nant tendency  within  the  limits  of  its  own  pur- 
suit. The  delicate  sense  of  fitness,  which  grows 
with  the  growth  of  the  contemplative  feelings, 
becomes  weak  when  they  are  neglected ;  and 
the  busy  intellect,  unembarrassed  by  its  incon- 
venient monitions,  begins  to  meddle  with  all  the 
range  of  practical  and  speculative  knowledge  in 
a  temper  of  incessant  argumentation. 

From  these  considerations  it  is  evident  that 
Cicero  labored  under  strong  previous  disadvan- 
tages in  his  approach  to  the  sanctuary  of  Wis- 
dom. The  "  (jtvya  fjiovov  Trpo?  fjwvov,"  preached  by 
the  latter  Platonists,  was  not  possible  for  him. 
He  did  not  come  alone;  he  brought  with  him  a 
thousand  worldly  prepossessions,  which  were  to 
him  as  the  veil  of  the  temple  at  Sais,  hiding  im- 
penetrably, "  that  which  was,  and  had  been,  and 
was  to  be."  He  adventured,  nevertheless  ;  and 
if  he  wanted  altogether  the  originality  and  fresh- 

«/ 

ness    of  the    Grecian  thinkers,  we   owe    to   his 


WRITINGS  OF  CICERO.  255 

industry',  patience,  and  acuteness,  the  general 
diffusion  and  reduction  to  popular  language  of 
much  that  had  been  finely  thought,  and  without 
him  might  never  have  obtained  free  currency 
among  mankind.  I  shall  proceed  to  notice 
briefly  the  opinions  maintained  by  him  on  some 
of  the  most  important  subjects  of  human  specu- 
lation. 

It  is  doubtless  in  the  character  of  a  moral  in- 
structor, that  Cicero  challenges  the  largest  share 
of  our  admiration.  The  simplicity  and  distinct- 
ness of  his  precepts  render  them  intelligible  to 
all,  while  the  gravity  and  persuasive  energy,  the 
richness  and  graceful  elegance  of  his  manner, 
tend  to  fix  them  in  memory,  and  interest  the  im- 
agination in  their  behalf.  Seldom  or  never  does 
he  rise  to  the  occasional  elevation  of  Seneca,  but 
he  is  free  also  from  that  writer's  exaggeration 
and  causeless  refinements.  All  that  department 
of  morality,  which  contains  the  duties  of  justice, 
and  from  which  public  and  private  legislation  im- 
mediately emanate,  was  treated  by  him  with  the 
greatest  copiousness  and  accuracy.  This  the 
view  I  have  taken  of  his  ruling  habits  would 
lead  us  to  expect ;  and  it  is  certain  that  this 
branch  of  philosophical  knowledge  could  not  but 


256      ESSAY  ON  THE  PHILOSOPHICAL 

borrow  additional  vigor  from  his  political  pur- 
suits. After  the  example  of  Plato,  he  composed 
six  books  "  De  Republica,"  (the  newly-recovered 
treasure  of  our  fortunate  age  !)  on  which  he  evi- 
dently rested  much  of  his  reputation,  because  he 
had  applied  to  their  composition  the  utmost  ma- 
turity of  his  thoughts.  His  notions  of  govern- 
ment were  large  and  republican ;  yet  they  differ 
perhaps  as  much  from  the  popular  schemes  of  the 
eighteenth  and  nineteenth  centuries,  as  from  Fil- 
mer's  patriarchal  theory  or  the  profligate  slavish- 
ness  of  Hobbism.  They  are  the  principles  by 
which  Rome  sprang  up  and  flourished  ;  the  cor- 
ruption of  which  changed  her  vigorous  prosperity 
into  splendid  misery  of  decay.  They  contain  the 
idea  of  a  balanced  constitution,  with  a  prepon- 
derating influence  of  the  higher  ranks,  as  the 
best  means  offered  by  the  experience  of  ages  for 
approximating  to  that  ideal  condition  of  a  state, 
which  the  ancients  never  lost  sight  of,  the 
dpioroKparta  or  government  by  the  wisest  and 
best.  We  meet  no  traces  in  what  Cicero  has 
written  of  his  considering  a  nation  as  a  mere 
aggregate  of  individuals  on  a  particular  point  of 
geographical  position,  the  majority  of  whom  have 
an  inalienable  right  to  bind  the  minority  by  their 


WRITINGS  OF  CICERO.  257 

will  and  pleasure.  That  venerable  name,  the 
Nation,  implied  for  him  a  body  of  men,  actuated 
by  one  spirit ;  by  a  community,  that  is,  of  hab- 
its, feeliftgs,  and  impressions  from  circumstances, 
tending  to  some  especial  development  of  human 
nature,  which  without  that  especial  combination 
would  never  have  existed,  and  fulfilling  therefore 
some  part  of  the  great  Providential  design.  That 
other  word,  the  State,  was  not  less  sacred ;  for  it 
denoted  the  natural  form  of  action  assumed  by 
the  nation  ;  the  mass  of  well-cemented  institu- 
tions by  which  the  particular  character  of  its  con- 
dition of  feeling  was  best  expressed  in  habitual 
conduct,  so  as  to  enable  it  to  be  continually,  but 
gravely  progressive.  His  attachment,  however, 
to  the  interests  of  stability  and  order  never  for 
a  moment  induced  Cicero  to  forget  his  Roman 
abhorrence  of  the  kingly  office  and  title.  In 
everything  he  spoke  for  law  and  counsel,  pro- 
scribing arbitrary  .will,  I  have  said  that  he  car- 
ried his  politics  too  far  into  philosophy ;  it  is  time 
to  say  the  converse,  that  his  politics  were  uni- 
formly philosophical. 

That  important  division  of  Ethics,  which  en- 
forces the  moral  necessity  of  self-restraint,  and 
prescribes  its  most  salutary  methods,  furnished 
17 


258     ESSAY  ON  THE  PHILOSOPHICAL 

our  author  with  a  wide  field  for  his  rhetorical 
powers.  This  subject  may,  indeed,  be  consid- 
ered as  exhausted  by  the  ancients :  the  wit  of 
man  will  probably  say  nothing  finer,  or  more  cal- 
culated to  set  this  duty  in  the  clearest  light  of 
reason,  than  has  already  been  put  on  record  by 
the  heathen  moralists.  Many  of  them  have  sur- 
passed Cicero  in  the  energy  of  their  conceptions : 
but  it  would  be  difficult  to  point  out  any  of  their 
arguments  for  the  power  of  man  over  himself, 
which  are  not  touched  upon  in  the  books  "  De 
Officiis,"  the  "  Tusculan  Questions,"  and  others 
of  a  like  description.  It  is  true  we  find  little 
that  appears  entirely  his  own  ;  he  used  with  no 
niggard  hand  the  stores  of  his  predecessors,  and 
hardly  seemed  to  have  much  confidence  in  what 
he  said,  unless  he  could  get  somebody  else  to 
vouch  for  it.  The  Stoic,  Panastius,  supplied  him 
with  the  whole  scheme,  and  most  of  the  details 
in  his  Offices.  From  the  Epicureans,  whose 
general  doctrine  he  regarded  with  aversion,  he 
seems  to  have  borrowed  those  views  concerning 
friendship,*  which  diffuse  a  gentle  light  over  the 

*  I  mean  their  conviction  of  its  importance,  and  earnest  recom- 
mendation of  it  by  counsel  and  by  practice,  not  their  theory  of 
"  (fifjo.  6ia  xptMi,"  against  which  Cicero  justly  inveighs.  The 
friendships  of  the  Epicureans  were  famous  all  over  the  world. 


WRITINGS   OF  CICERO.  259 

sterner  aspect  of  his  other  opinions.  The  inflex- 
ible followers  of  Zeno  and  Chrysippus  were  en- 
tirely devoted  to  the  heroic  attributes  of  human 
will :  *  they  often  mistook  pride  for  virtue  ;  the 
selfish  feeling  that  leads  men  to  persevere  in  a 
particular  course  of  thought  and  conduct,  in 
order  to  prove  to  themselves  their  power  of 
-Determination,  for  the  humble  and  self-sacri- 
ficing spirit,  which  desires  only  to  know  itself 
as  the  servant  of  conscience  and  of.  God.  Their 
Korop^w/za,  or  ideal  life  of  rectitude,  was  entirely 
devoid  of  passion,  and  incapable  (had  they 
known  it !)  of  virtue,  as  of  vice.  The  later 
Stoics,  indeed,  were  made  of  better  stuff:  a  new 
light  had  then  begun  to  shine  in  the  darkness  of 
the  world,  and  the  warmth  of  its  beams  made 
them  unconsciously  relax  the  folds  of  their  "  Stoic 
fur."  "  A//.O.  aTraOea-TarOv  etvai,  ct/xa  Se  <£tA.ooTopyora- 

TOV"  is  the  milder  form  in  which  the  imperial 
sage  contemplated  his  idea  of  moral  perfection. 
Before  the  time  of  Cicero,  the  meek  and  passive 

Gassendi  is  so  impressed  with  the  amiable  picture  of  concord,  and 
pleasant  intercourse,  that  he  is  ready  to  believe  litalem  Societatem 
cfelestis  concordise  sinu  genitam,  nutritam,  ac  finitam."  —  De 
vita  et  moribus  Epicuri  1.  ii.  c.  6. 

*  "  Trjv  Trpoaipeaiv,"  says  Epictetus,  in  the  spirit  of  the  founder, 
"  ot>f5e  6  Zn>f  vinrjaai  dvvarai." 


260     ESSAY  ON  THE  PHILOSOPHICAL 

affections  were  held  by  these  scholastics  unwor- 
thy of  the  loftiness  of  virtue.  Fortunately,  how- 
ever, he  was  not,  like  them,  a  philosopher  by 
profession ;  he  was  a  Roman  gentleman,  and 
would  not  consent  to  give  up  feelings  that 
adorned  society,  and  constituted  domestic  life. 
His  dialogues  "  De  AmicitiS, "  and  "  De  Senec- 
tute  "  have  a  fine  mellow  tone  of  coloring,  which 
sets  them  perhaps  above  all  his  other  works  in 
point  of  originality  and  beauty.*  They  come 
more  from  the  man  himself:  spontaneous  pleas- 
ure from  his  heart  seems,  like  a  delicate  ether, 
to  surround  the  recollections  he  detains,  and  the 
anticipation  he  indulges.  How  grand  and  dis- 
tinct is  the  person  of  Cato  !  What  a  beautiful 
blending  of  the  individual  patriot,  as  we  know 
him  from  history,  with  the  ideal  character  of 
age! 

When  we  pass  from  the  eloquent  moralities  of 
Cicero  to  examine  the  foundations  of  his  ethical 
system,  we  find  a  sudden  blank  and  deficiency. 
His  praises  of  friendship,  as  one  of  the  duties  as 
well  as  ornaments  of  life,  never  seem  to  have 

*  I  learn,  with  pleasure,  that  this  is  also  the  opinion  of  one  of  the 
greatest  of  our  great  men  now  alive,  —  the  Reformer  of  English 
Poetry,  the  author  of  the  "  Lyrical  Ballads,"  and  the  "  Excursion." 


WRITINGS  OF  CICERO.  261 

suggested  to  his  thoughts  any  resemblance  of 
that  solemn  idea  which  alone  solves  the  enigma 

O 

of  our  feelings,  and  while  it  supplies  a  meaning 
to  conscience,  explains  the  destination  of  man. 
That  he  had  read  Plato  with  delight,  we  see 
abundant  tokens,  and  his  expressions  of  admira- 
tion and  gratitude  to  that  great  man  remain  as 
indications  of  a  noble  temper:  but  that  he  had 
read  him  with  right  discernment  can  hardly 
be  supposed,  since  he  prefers  the  sanctions  of 
morality  provided  by  the  latter  Grecian  schools 
to  the  sublime  principle  of  love,  as  taught  by 
the  founder  of  the  Academy.  My  meaning  per- 
haps requires  to  be  explained  more  in  detail. 

Love,  in  its  simplest  ethical  sense,  as  a  word 
of  the  same  import  with  sympathy,  is  the  de- 
sire which  one  sentient  being  feels  for  another's 
gratification,  and  consequent  aversion  to  anoth- 
er's pain.  This  is  the  broad  and  deep  founda- 
tion of  our  moral  nature.  The  gradations  of 
superstructure  are  somewhat  less  obvious,  be- 
cause they  involve  the  hitherto  obscure  process 
by  which  there  arises  a  particular  class  of  emo- 
tions,* affecting  us  with  pleasure  or  with  pain, 
according  as  the  condition  of  our  affections  is 

*  I  refer  to  Sir  J.  Mackintosh's  "  Dissertation  on  Ethical  Philoso- 
phy," (prefixed  to  the  Supplement  of  the  "  Encyclopaedia  Britan- 


262     ESSAY  ON  THE  PHILOSOPHICAL 

sympathetic,  or  the  reverse.  These  emotions 
are,  in  one  sense,  the  strongest  we  possess,  be- 
cause they  are  independent  of  our  senses,  and 
of  external  circumstances,  and  are  only  conver- 
sant with  the  SQurces  of  action:  yet,  for  this 
very  reason,  they  too  often  succumb  to  other 
passions,  less  intimately  connected  with  the  per- 
manent parts  of  our  constitution,  as  active 
beings,  but  nourished  by  the  changing  acci- 
dents of  sensation ;  and,  in  this  view,  we  may 
lament,  with  Butler,  that  "  conscience  has  not 
power,  as  she  has  authority." 

The  accession  of  this  new  mode  of  conscious- 
ness introduces  a  new  kind  of  affection  to  other 
beings,  compounded  of  the  original  sympathy, 
and  of  what  has  been  termed  moral  compla- 
cency.* A  notion  of  similar  susceptibility  gave 
occasion  to  that  primary  sentiment ;  and  now  a 
community  of  moral  disposition  is  required  for 
the  exercise  of  this  secondary  sentiment.  We 
do  not  cease  to  be  moved  by  the  first:  but 
we  have  superinduced  another,  more  restricted 

nica,")  the  most  important  contribution,  in  my  very  humble  judg- 
ment, which,  for  many  years,  has  enlarged  the  inductive  philoso- 
phy of  mind. 

*  See  "  A  Dissertation  on  the  Nature  of  Virtue,"  by  Jonathan 
Edwards,  —  durum  et  venerabile  nomen,  of  which  America  may 
be  j  ustly  proud ! 


WRITINGS   OF  CICERO.  263 

in  its  choice  of  objects,  but  attaching  us  more 
powerfully,  because  derived  from  a  more  de- 
veloped nature.  Other  developments  of  our 
faculties  will  successively  produce  other  simi- 
larities ;  and  determine,  in  different  directions, 
our  sensibility ;  but  since  our  whole  frame  of 
thought  and  feeling  is  affected  by  our  moral 
condition,  and  "an  operation  of  conscience  pre- 
cedes every  action  deliberate  enough  to  be  called 
in  the  highest  sense  voluntary,"  *  this  great  prin- 
ciple of  moral  community  will  be  found  to  per- 
vade and  tinge  every  sort  of  resemblance,  suffi- 
cient to  give  rise  to  attachment. 

To  inspire  men  with  this  virtuous  passion,  which 
however  dispersed  over  particular  affections, 
and  perceptible  in  them,  has,  like  conscience, 
from  which  it  springs,  too  little  hold  on  sensa- 
tion to  act  often  from  its  own  unaided  resources, 
was  the  great  aim  of  the  Platonic  philosophy. 
Its  mighty  master,  who  "  irnpw  8i<£po>  e<£e£o//.evos  " 
discerned  far  more  of  the  cardinal  points  of  our 
human  position  than  numbers,  whose  more  ac- 
curate perception  of  details  has  given  them  an 
inclination,!  but  no  right,  to  sneer  at  his  imirior- 

*  Mackintosh,  Dissert.,  p.  181. 

t  We  need  not  wonder  at  the  flippant  Bolingbroke  for  jesting  at 


264     ESSAY  ON  THE  PHILOSOPHICAL 

tal  compositions  —  Plato  saw  very  early,  that  to 
communicate  to  our  nature  this  noblest  kind  of 
love,  the  love  of  a  worthy  object,  would  have 
the  effect  of  a  regeneration  to  the  soul,  and 
would  establish  conscience  in  nearly  the  same 
intimacy  with  the  world  of  the  senses,  which 
she  already  maintains  with  our  interior  exist- 
ence. Hence  his  constant  presentation  of  moral- 
ity under  the  aspect  of  beauty,  a  practice  fa- 
vored by  the  language  of  his  country,  where 
from  an  early  period  the  same  TO  KO\OV  had  com- 
prehended them  both.  Hence  that  frequent 
commendation  of  a  more  lively  sentiment  than 
has  existed  in  other  times  between  man  and 
man,  the  misunderstanding  of  which  has  re- 
pelled several  from  the  deep  tenderness  and 
splendid  imaginations  of  the  Phaedrus  and  the 
Symposium,  but  which  was  evidently  resorted 
to  by  Plato,  on  account  of  the  social  prejudices 
which  at  that  time  depressed  woman  below  her 

Plato  (see  Fragments  and  Minutes  of  Essays,  passim):  the  lofty 
intellect  of  Verulam  may  well  be  permitted  to  occupy  its  view 
with  the  abundant  future,  even  to  the  detriment  of  his  judgments 
on  antiquity;  but  what  excuse  shall  be  made  for  Montesquieu, 
when  he  coolly  pronounces  the  Platonic  dialogues  unworthy  of 
modern  perusal,  and  is  half  inclined  to  wonder  what  the  ancients 
could  find  to  like  in  them?  —  See  Leltres  Persannes. 


WRITINGS  OF  CICERO.  265 

natural  station,  and  which,  even  had  the  phi- 
losopher himself  entirely  surmounted  them, 
would  have  „  rendered  it  perhaps  impossible  to 
persuade  an  "Athenian  audience  that  a  female 
mind,  especially  if  restrained  within  the  limits 
of  chastity  and  modest  obedience,  could  ever 
possess  attractions  at  all  worthy  to  fix  the  re- 
gard, much  less  exhaust  the  capacities  of  this 
highest  and  purest  manly  love.  There  was 
also  another  reason.  The  soul  of  man  was  con- 
sidered the  best  object  of  cpws,  because  it  partook 
most  of  the  presumed  nature  of  Divinity.* 
There  are  not  wanting  in  the  Platonic  writings 
clear  traces  of  his  having  perceived  the  ulterior 
destiny  of  this  passion,  and  the  grandeur  of  that 
object,  which  alone  can  absorb  its  rays  for  time 
and  for  eternity.  The  doctrine  of  a  personal 
God,  himself  essentially  love,  and  requiring  the 
love  of  the  creature  as  the  completion  of  his 

*  When  a  general  admiration  for  Plato  revived  with  the  re- 
vival of  arts  and  learning,  the  difference  of  social  manners,  which 
had  been  the  gradual  effect  of  Christianity,  led  men  naturally  to 
fix  the  reverential  and  ideal  affection  on  the  female  character. 
The  expressions  of  Petrarch  and  Dante  have  been  accused  as  frigid 
and  unnatural,  because  they  flow  from  a  state  of  feeling  which  be- 
longed to  very  peculiar  circumstances  of  knowledge  and  social 
position,  and  which  are  not  easily  comprehended  by  us  who  live  at 
a  different  period. 


266     ESSAY  ON  THE  PHILOSOPHICAL 

being,  often  seems  to  tremble  on  the  lips  of  the 
master,  but  it  was  too  strange  for  him,  too  like 
a  fiction  of  wayward  fancy,  too  liable  to  meta- 
physical objections.  "It  is  difficult,"  he  says, 
"  to  find,  and  more  difficult  to  reveal,  the  Father 
of  the  Universe."  *  There  he  left  it,  and  there 
it  remained,  until  the  message  of  universal  bap- 
tism was  given  to  the  twelve.  Few  or  none 
of  the  immediate  successors  to  Plato  were  im- 
pressed with  the  religious  character  of  his  philos- 
ophy ;  or  if  their  hearts  were  conscious  of  a  new 
and  stirring  influence,  while  they  perused  those 
sacred  writings,  their  understanding  took  no 
note  of  its  real  tendency,  but  ascribed  it  to  the 
effect  of  eloquence,  or  the  Socratic  method.  The 
Alexandrian  school  indeed  read  with  open  eyes,f 

*  In  Timaeo. 

t  Many  tenets,  however,  of  the  New  Platonists  were  perversions 
from  the  original  doctrine  to  serve  an  especial  purpose.  These 
factious  recluses  hated  Christianity  "even  more  than  they  rever- 
enced its  precursor;  and  for  the  erotic  character,  impressed  on  the 
new  religion,  they  would  have  gladly  substituted  visions  of  intel- 
lectual union  with  the  Absolute,  and  complete  abstraction  from 
the  inlets  of  sensation.  The  old  Platonic  language,  out  of  which 
they  manufactured  their  systems,  was  made  use  of  probably  by  its 
author,  as  the  best  means  he  could  devise  for  elevating  the  minds 
of  his  hearers  above  low  and  vulgar  motives.  I  have  no  faith  in 
those  who  fancy  a  scheme  of  his  real  opinions  may  be  constructed 


WRITINGS   OF  CICERO.  267 

but  Christianity  had  given  them  the  hint:  and 
it  is  beyond /contradiction,  that,  before  the  Chris- 
tian era,  the  only  part  of  the  earth's  surface  in 
which  the  First  and  Great  Commandment  was 
recognized,  hardly  occupied  a  larger  extent  than 
the  principality  of  Wales,  and  was  inhabited  by 
a  set  of  stiff-necked  people,  whom  the  polite  and 
wise  of  this  world  esteemed  below  their  con- 
tempt. Upon  this  insulated  nation  how  won- 
derful had  been  the  effect  produced !  In  their 
singular  literature  a  strong  light  was  thrown 
upon  recesses  of  the  human  heart,  unknown  to 
Grecian  or  Roman  genius.  Their  thoughts  pur- 
sued a  separate  track,  and  their  habits  of  life, 
consonant  to  those  thoughts,  were  unlike  the 
customs  of  nations.  In  them  we  see  a  new 
phase  of  the  human  character,  the  same  that 
has  since  been  expanded  by  the  Christian  dis- 
pensation, and  the  loftiest  we  can  conceive  to 

from  his  works,  or  that  it  was  any  part  of  his  design  to  improve 
mankind  by  the  communication  of  psychological  knowledge. 
When,  he  relates  a  legendary  tale,  like  that  of  Atlantis  in  the 
Timseus,  we  do  not  suppose  it  necessary  to  suppose  his  credence 
of  the  story,  but  are  content  to  take  it  for  a  beautiful  piece  of  my- 
thology, illustrating  and  serving  the  main  purpose  of  the  dialogue. 
Why  should  we  not  believe  the  same  of  his  purely  metaphysical 
dissertations  ? 


268     ESSAY  ON  THE  PHILOSOPHICAL 

exist  in  any  body  of  men.  It  proceeds  from  the 
recognition  of  God,  as  a  living  and  proximate 
agent,  constituting  the  course  of  nature  and  sus- 
pending it  at  will,  raising  up  and  overthrowing 
nations  by  particular  providence,  and  carrying 
on  a  perpetual  war  for  the  salvation  of  each  in- 
dividual soul.  The  spirit  of  holy  love  flows  nat- 
urally from  this  faith,  and  fulfils  the  obligations 
of  conscience.  But  it  seems  impossible  that  the 
unrevealed  Divinity,  however  credited  by  nat- 
ural reason,  should  inspire  such  transports  as 
glowed  in  the  bosoms  of  Hebrew  prophets,  or 
dulled  the  torture  of  those  flames  and  racks  on 
which  Christian  martyrs  were  eager  to  expire. 
Revelation  is  a  voluntary  approximation  of  the 
Infinite  Being  to  the  ways  and  thoughts  of  finite 
humanity.  But  until  this  step  has  been  taken 
by  Almighty  Grace,  how  should  man  have  a 
warrant  for  loving  with  all  his  heart  and  mind 
and  strength?  How  may  his  contracted  and 
localized  individuality  not  be  lost  in  the  unfath- 
omable depths  of  the  Eternal  and  Immense  ? 
Can  he  love  what  he  does  not  know?  Can  he 
know  what  is  essentially  incomprehensible  ? 
The  exercise  of  his  reasoning  faculties  may 
have  convinced  him  that  a  Supreme  Mind  ex- 


WRITINGS  OF  CICERO.  269 

ists,  but  the  same  faculties  should  have  taught 
that  its  nature  is  perfectly  dissimilar  from  the 
only  mind  with  which  he  is  acquainted,  and  that 
when  he  gives  it  the  same  name,  it  is  with  ref- 
erence to  the  similarity  of  the  respective  effects. 
If  regardless  of  the  limits  within  which  he  is 
bound  to  philosophize,  he  admits  a  little  An- 
thropomorphism into  his  system  of  belief,  yet 
he  will  hardly  venture  to  consider  a  passion,  re- 
sembling human  love,  enough  to  deserve  the 
same  appellation,  as  in  any  degree  compatible 
with  that  independent  felicity,  which  he  ascribes 
to  the  Being  of  beings.  How  then  can  he  love 
a  Spirit,  to  whose  happiness  he  bears  no  relation, 
and  whose  perfections,  since  they  are  vast,  must 
be  vague,  embodied  in  no  action,  concentrated 
upon  no  point  of  time  ?  The  thing  is  impossi- 
ble, and  has  never  been.  Without  the  Gospel, 
nature  exhibits  a  want  of  harmony  between  our 
intrinsic  constitution,  and  the  system  in  which 
it  is  placed.  But  Christianity  has  made  up  the 
difference.  It  is  possible  and  natural  to  love  the 
Father,  who  has  made  us  his  children  by  the 
spirit  of  adoption :  it  is  possible  and  natural  to 
love  the  Elder  Brother,  who  was,  in  all  things, 
like  as  we  are,  except  sin,  and  can  succor  those 


270      ESSAY  ON  THE  PHILOSOPHICAL 

in  temptation,  having  been  himself  tempted. 
Thus  the  Christian  faith  is  the  necessary  com- 
plement of  a  sound  ethical  system. 

Ignorant  by  his  position  of  this  fact,  untaught 
by  imagination  and  meditative  feeling,  the  at- 
tendant 8a.ifji.ovfs  of  Plato,  to  discern  the  tenden- 
cies of  man  towards  this  future  consummation, 
the  author  of  Roman  philosophy  sought  a  foun- 
dation for  his  moral  system  in  the  opposite  hem- 
isphere of  mind.  He  turned  from  the  groves 
of  Academus,  and  the  refreshing  source  "  /mAa 
\fn>xp°v  VI&M-OS,"  *  to  embrace  the  stately  doctrine 
of  Stoicism,  or  that  of  the  Peripatetics,  which  he 
considered  as  differing  rather  in  words  than  mat- 
ter. He  left  the  heart  for  the  head,  sentiment 
for  reason  ;  and  placed  himself  boldly  in  the 
ranks  of  those,  who,  reversing  the  order  of 
nature,  have  endeavored  to  confound  the  charac- 
ter of  our  reflection  on  feeling,  with  the  charac- 
ter of  feeling  itself,  and  seek  to  account  for  the 
moral  obligation  of  beings  whose  activity  de- 
rives from  emotion,  by  theories  only  respective 
of  a  subsequent  congruity  in  perception.  The 
great  and  palpable  distinctions  between  the  Epi- 
curean and  Stoical  systems  are  exposed  on  the 
*  See  the  exquisite  passage  in  the  Phcednu,  sub  init. 


WRITINGS  OF  CICERO.  271 

surface  of  history,  and  it  would  be  idle  to  re- 
peat an  enumeration,  so  often  made,  and  so  fa- 
miliar to  the  most  hasty  reader.  But  they  may 
be  considered  in  a  more  universal  relation,  than 
perhaps  they  yet  have  been,  as  illustrating  the 
different  positions  of  human  intelligence,  with 
respect  to  religion  on  one  hand,  and  philosophi- 
cal truth  on  the  other.  Some  justice  perhaps 
remains  to  be  done  to  Epicurus,  if  it  can  be 
shown,  as  I  think  it  can,  that  his  inspection  of 
human  nature  elicited  results  of  great  impor- 
tance to  the  science  of  mind,  and  conformable  to 
the  discoveries  of  modern  analysis,  although  he 
did  not  perceive  the  real  connection  and  place 
of  these  facts,  and  suffered  himself  to  cover  their 
meaning  by  a  paralogism  of  specious  simplicity, 
because  his  mental  sight  was  more  quick  and 
keen  than  it  was  steady,  his  imagination  not 
sufficiently  delicate  to  inspire  such  pure  wishes 
as  might  have  kept  up  attentive  research  in  the 
right  quarter. 

It  is  important  to  keep  in  mind,  while  we  in- 
vestigate the  progress  of  ancient  philosophy,  that 
the  province  of  metaphysical  analysis  was  not 
(and  before  the  Christian  era,  could  not  safely 
be)  disjoined  from  that  of  moral  instruction.  A 


272     ESSAY  ON  THE  PHILOSOPHICAL 

school  of  philosophy  stood  in  the  place,  and  an- 
swered the  purpose,  as  far  as  it  was  able,  of  a 
national  church.  To  trace  the  origin  of  emo- 
tions, and  the  connection  of  motives  in  the  mind, 
was  an  object,  which,  however  interesting  to  the 
lover  of  truth,  yet  was  justly  considered  subordi- 
nate to  the  enforcement  of  moral  duties,  and  the 
exhibition  of  the  beauty  of  virtue  to  the  heart. 
It  is  a  circumstance  of  the  utmost  moment  in  the 
history  of  our  race,  and  one  which  seems  an 
admirable  sign  of  superintending  wisdom,  that 
while  problems  relating  to  the  original  formation 
and  secret  laws  of  conscience  continue  to  allure 
and  baffle  our  speculation,  its  main  results  have 
never  admitted  of  sufficient  doubt  to  perplex 
those  simple  reasonings  upon  them,  which  from 
the  earliest  ages,  and  in  the  darkest  times,  have 
made  the  plainest  form  of  address  from  man  to 
man,  for  the  encouragement  of  good,  and  the 
depression  of  evil.  But  it  is  clear,  also,  that  the 
obviousness  of  these  materials  for  moral  argu- 
ment, and  the  necessity,  felt  by  every  good  man, 
and  felt  in  proportion  to  his  intensity  of  medita- 
tion on  these  subjects,  of  using  his  mental  ener- 
gies to  inculcate  the  lessons  deduced  from  them, 
must  have  operated  in  no  slight  degree  to  pre- 


WRITINGS  OF  CICERO.  273 

vent  or  confuse  a  calm,  strict,  intellectual  exam- 
ination of  these  all-important  parts  of  our  con- 
stitution, as  objects  of  inductive  science.  Truth 
is  a  jealous,  as  well  as  a  lovely  mistress ;  and  she 
will  never  brook  in  her  adorers  a  divided  atten- 
tion. On  the  other  hand,  such  is  the  awful 
solemnity  that  invests  the  shrine  of  virtue,  that 
we  cannot  wonder  if  they  who  perceived  the 
signatures  of  divinity  upon  it,  were  reluctant  to 
examine  its  structure,  and  determine  its  propor- 
tions. From  these  premises,  I  think,  we  should 
be  led  to  expect  a  more  rigorous  prosecution  of 
the  metaphysics  of  Ethics  among  those  sects  of 
philosophy,  which  have  least  claim  on  our  moral 
approbation  and  reverence.  We  should  not  look 
for  careful  distinction,  or  close  deduction,  where 
we  discover  the  ardor  of  a  noble  enthusiasm,  and 
admire  an  exalted  conviction  of  the  purposes,  f  jr 
which  our  nature  was  framed,  and  the  dignity 
to  which  it  may  arrive.  We  should  seek  them 
rather  among  colder  temperaments,  devoid  of 
imaginative  faith,  and  susceptible  of  no  emotion 
so  strongly,  as  of  the  delight  in  dispelling  illu- 
sion, and  clearly  comprehending  the  fundamental 
relations  of  our  ideas.  In  laying  down  this  posi- 
tion, I  hope  I  shall  not  be  understood  to  assert  a 
18 


274     ESSAY  ON  THE  PHILOSOPHICAL 

real  superiority  in  this  latter  class  of  thinkers. 
The  previous  part  of  this  Essay  will  sufficiently 
testify  my  opinion,  that  the  man  who  is  deficient 
in  susceptibility  of  emotion  will  make  a  sorry  sur- 
vey of  mental  phenomena,  precisely  because  he 
will  leave  out  of  his  account  the  most  extensive 
and  efficient  portion  of  the  facts.  On  the  other 
hand,  one  who  contemplates  nature  through  the 
medium  of  imagination  and  feeling,  perceives  in- 
numerable combinations  of  subtle  emotion,  which 
are  entirely  out  of  the  other's  sight,  and  does 
infinitely  more  to  increase  the  gross  amount 
of  human  knowledge  than  the  mere  logical  ob- 
server. We  must  distinguish,  however,  between 
the  principles  of  mental  growth,  and  their  pro- 
ducts. We  are  more  concerned  to  know  the 
latter,  because  it  is  the  infinite  variety  of  these 
which  constitutes  our  existence.  To  this  knowl- 
edge more  is  ministered  by  passion  than  by  all 
the  forms  of  dispassionate  perception.  But  for 
the  particular  purpose  of  searching  out  the  sim- 
ple principles,  on  which  these  manifold  results 
are  dependent,  the  requisite  habits  of  thought 
are  entirely  different.  The  mind  must,  as  much 
as  possible,  abstract  itself  from  the  influence 
which  all  associated  modes  exert  on  the  will,  and 


WRITINGS  OF  CICERO.  275 

permit  no  feeling,  except  the  desire  of  truth,  to 
come  in  contact  with  the  conceptions  of  the  un- 
derstanding. Of  course  this  will  be  especially- 
necessary,  when  the  object  of  research  happens 
to  be  the  character  and  origin  of  our  moral  sen- 
timents :  for  as  none  carry  such  authority  with 
them,  so  none  are  more  likely  to  act  as  a  disturb- 
ing force.  This  view  receives  abundant  illus- 
tration from  the  history  of  every  period  in  the 
progress  of  philosophy ;  but,  as  has  been  already 
intimated,  the  facts  it  embraces  are  most  palpa- 
ble among  the  ancients,  because  Christianity  has 
materially  altered  our  situation  with  respect  to 
ethical  studies.  That  mighty  revolution  which 
brought  the  poor  and  unlearned  into  the  posses- 
sion of  a  pure  code  of  moral  opinion,  that  before 
had  existed  only  for  the  wise,  and  crowned  this 
great  benefit  by  another,  of  which  we  have 
spoken  above,  which  is  still  more  incalculably 
valuable,  the  insertion  of  a  new  life-giving  mo- 
tive into  the  rude  mass  of  human  desires,  could 
not  fail  to  add  freedom  and  vigor  to  intellectual 
inquiry,  by  the  satisfaction  it  afforded  to  moral 
aspiration,  and  the  certainty,  or  even  triteness, 
imparted  by  it  to  many  topics,  which  in  former 
days  had  occupied  much  of  the  time  and  thought 


276     ESSAY  ON  THE  PHILOSOPHICAL 

of  philosophers.  A  little  reflection,  indeed,  will 
serve  to  show  us  that  the  causes  of  hindrance 
are  not  removed,  but  only  weakened  by  the 
change,  and  that  during  some  periods  in  the 
growth  of  Christian  civilization,  they  will  oper- 
ate with  a  force,  nourished  by  the  circumstances, 
and  fulfilling  the  purpose  of  those  peculiar  epochs. 
But  into  these  considerations  I  have  not  now  to 
enter :  I  wish  to  apply  the  rules  of  judgment 
I  have  endeavored  to  establish  to  the  origin 
of  these  rival  factions  of  the  Porch  and  the 
Garden. 

The  first  philosopher  who  fairly  handled  the 
question  of  Final  Good  *  (a  question  which  once 

*  Theories,  which  made  pleasure  the  chief  good,  were  not  in- 
deed unknown  before  his  time,  since  the  school  of  Cyrene  had 
expressly  taught  this  opinion,  and  we  learn  from  Aristotle  that 
Eudoxus  had  similar  views.  But  Aristippus  was  a  coarse  sensual- 
ist, like  our  own  Mandeville,  and  the  influence  of  Eudoxus  does 
not  appear  to  have  been  extensive,  or  his  theory  anything  better 
than  a  formula  for  selfish  habits.  In  the  best  schools  of  antiquity 
this  question  is  little  dwelt  upon,  and  never  started  in  the  precise, 
scholastic  shape  which  it  assumed  when  dialectics  became  fashion- 
able. Even  Aristotle,  the  great  representative  of  the  analytic  and 
theorizing  tendencies  of  human  intellect,  evades  the  real  meta- 
physical question  concerning  the  nature  of  virtue,  while  his  de^ 
lineations  of  the  habits  it  produces,  are  most  of  them  excellent,  and 
his  collection  of  facts  of  mental  experience  invaluable,  both  as  a 
specimen  of  induction,  and  an  integral  part  of  our  sum  of  knowl- 
edge. 


WRITINGS  OF  CICERO.  277 

set  in  agitation  has  continued  to  excite  the  most 
contentious  discussion,  and  has  not  jet  been  con- 
signed to  a  satisfactory  repose)  was  the  first  also 
who  uplifted  a  daring  voice  against  the  solemn 
articles  of  universal  belief.  Epicurus,  who  had 
laid  his  sacrilegious  hand  upon  the  altars  of  man- 
kind, was  not  deterred  from  his  pursuit  of  first 
principles  by  any  superstitious  reverence  for  the 
unapproachable  sanctity  of  virtue.  Instead  of 
assuming  certain  impressions  as  causes,  before 
he  had  ascertained  them  not  to  be  effects,  he 
thought  it  best  to  begin  at  the  beginning,  to  dis- 
cover first  by  experience  some  ultimate  element 
in  the  mind,  and  then,  returning  by  the  way 
of  cautious  induction,  to  trace  the  extent  of  its 
operations,  before  he  ventured  to  petition  Nature 
for  another  principle.  In  this  return  he  commit- 
ted some  very  important  mistakes  :  but  it  has 
appeared  to  me  that  his  beginning  was  correct, 
and  his  erroneous  additions  easily  separable  from 
the  incumbered  truths.  When  this  eminent  man 
commenced  his  reflections  on  human  life,  his  at- 
tention seems  to  have  been  most  forcibly  arrested 
by  one  primary  fact.  He  saw  that  man,  besides 
the  perceptions  of  his  senses,  has  two  distinct 
natures  ;  two  distinct  classes,  that  is,  of  mental 


278     ESSAY  ON  THE  PHILOSOPHICAL 

states,  in  which  he  successively,  or  simultaneous- 
ly exists  ;  the  one  "  xwPl?  Xoyov,"  founded  in  his 
susceptibility  of  pleasure  and  pain,  and  compre- 
hending all  the  wonderful  combinations  of  these 
elements  from  the  simplest  forms  of  delight  and 
grief  to  the  most  composite  involutions  of  pas- 
sion :  the  other,  which  is  made  up  of  conceptions 
of  what  has  previously  existed  either  for  the 
senses,  or  the  emotions,  or  this  very  conceptive 
faculty,  and  which,  while  it  brings  us  ii'resistible 
evidence  of  our  connection  with  something  past, 
inspires  us  with  an  equal  certainty  that  we  can 
govern  something  future.  He  perceived  (few  so 
clearly)  that  to  the  first  of  these  natures  alone  is 
intrusted  the  high  prerogative  of  directing  those 
states  of  mind  which  immediately  precede  ac- 
tion. Pleasure  he  found  in  every  desire,  desire 
in  every  volition  ;  spontaneousness  in  every  act. 
Throughout  the  whole  range  of  consciousness  he 
could  find  no  instance  in  which  a  conceptive 
state,  a  mere  thought,  stood  in  the  same  close 
relation  to  any  voluntary  process,  which  is  occu- 
pied by  the  various  conditions  of  feeling.  Hav- 
ing made  this  discovery,  that  pleasure  is  the 
mainspring  of  action,  he  lost  no  time  in  commu- 
nicating it  to  the  world  ;  but,  unfortunately,  in 


WRITINGS  OF  CICERO.  279 

his  haste  to  apply  this  principle,  he  coupled  it 
with  another,  utterly  unproved,  and,  as  it  soon 
appeared,  not  only  incapable  of  proof,  but  pro- 
ductive of  the  most  detrimental  consequences  to 
all  who  received  it  for  truth.  He  asserted,  that 
as  Pleasure  is  a  constituent  part  of  every  de- 
sire, so  it  must  needs  be  the  only  object  desired. 
The  assertion  has  in  all  ages  found  an  echo,  and, 
while  it  cannot  be  matter  of  surprise  that  such 
doctrine  should  find  supporters  among  the  profli- 
gate, or  the  feeble,  among  republicans  declining 
to  luxurious  ruin,  or  the  courtly  flatterers  of  a 
munificent  tyranny;  yet  even  an  habitual  ob- 
server of  those  metaphysical  cycles,  in  which 
human  opinions  have  their  periodical  seasons  of 
fluctuation,  might  perhaps  be  inclined  to  deviate 
from  his  "  nil  admirari,"  when  he  sees  a  fallacy, 
liable  to  such  easy  detection,  reproduced  and  de- 
fended in  some  more  favored  generations.  We 
all  in  common  conversation  and  common  thought 

O 

presume  the  object  of  a  desire,  that  which  it  ex- 
clusively regards,  and  by  which  it  is  limited,  to 
be  the  very  thing  which  makes  a  difference  be- 
tween the  quality  of  that  desire,  and  the  quality 
of  any  other.  Now,  desire  can  only  be  excited 


280      ESSAY  ON  THE  PHILOSOPHICAL 

by  a  thought  of  the  object ;  *  and  as  we  can  cer- 
tainly form  a  thought  of  our  neighbor's  pleasure, 
as  well  as  of  our  own,  it  seems  absurd  to  con- 
tend, that  no  such  thought  can  be  the  exciting 
cause,  and  represent  the  external  object  of  our 
desire.f  The  reality  of  benevolence  is  the 

*  Strictly  speaking,  nothing  but  the  thought  should  be  called  the 
object  of  desire.  For  desire  implies  futurity,  and  nothing  future 
can  actually  exist,  although  it  may  be  represented.  If  we  wish  to 
give  an  exhaustive  definition  of  that  internal  condition,  which  we 
experience  when  we  desire,  we  must  include  not  only  the  strong 
pleasurable  impulse,  together  with  the  painful  sense  of  privation, 
but  an  accompanying  judgment  that  our  .thought  is  not  fallacious, 
and  will  have  a  corresponding  reality  in  the  nature  of  things. 

t  The  idea  of  our  own  previous  pleasure  may  sometimes  coexist 
with,  or  form  part  of  such  a  thought,  but  when  we  feel  generously 
it  occupies  a  small  place,  and  in  point  of  fact  is  never  the  part  re- 
garded. The  desire  of  happiness  considered  as  permanent  well- 
being,  is  still  more  repugnant  to  the  presence  of  virtuous  desire, 
which  is  always  intensely  occupied  with  some  proximate  point  of 
futurity,  beyond  which  it  does  not  cast  a  glance.  To  excite  the 
desire  of  happiness,  or  rational  self-love,  (amour  de  soi,  as  distin- 
guished from  amour  propre )  in  order  to  produce  a  return  to  virtue, 
is  laudable,  and  very  effectual.  In  the  imperfect  condition  of  hu- 
manity this  is  the  strongest  impulse  to  those  heights  which  the 
soul  is  "competent  to  gain,"  but  not  "to  keep."  Upon  them, 
however,  "  purior  aether  Incubat,  et  largd  diffuso  lumine  ridet" 
The  act  of  loving  another  excludes  self-love.  An  eternity,  then, 
which  should  consist  in  love  of  God,  would  imply,  by  the  terms  of 
the  definition,  the  impossibility,  not  of  feeling  felicity,  nor  even 
of  reflecting  upon  it,  but  certainly  of  desiring  its  continuance  for 


WRITINGS   OF  CICERO.  281 

corner-stone  in  the  sanctuary ;  "  those  who  fall 
upon  it  will  be  broken."  However  a  right  feel- 
ing may  have  made  their  conclusions  better  than 
their  premises,  when  they  come  to  touch  upon 
this  subject  the  inconsistency  of  their  theories 
will  appear.  But  those,  "  upon  whom  it  shall 
fall"  —who  have  been  fatally  led  by  their  spec- 
ulations into  correspondent  practice  —  "  it  will 
grind  them  to  powder  !  "  "  C'est  la  manie," 
says  Rousseau,  "  de  tous  les  philosophes  de  nier 
ce  qui  est,  et  de  prouver  ce  qui  n'est  pas."  Epi- 
curus, having  commenced  with  a  mistake  of  the 

'  ~ 

latter  kind,  in  assuming  one  thing  as  proved, 
because  he  had  shown  another  to  be  true,  pro- 
ceeded to  deny,  or  at  least  to  pass  over,  the  most 
important  function  of  our  nature.  No  one,  he 
said,  could  live  rightly  without  living  pleas- 
urably ;  and  no  one  pleasurably,  without  living 
rightly.  But  he  omitted  to  say,  that  the  pleas- 
ure arising  from  virtuous  action  is  a  peculiar 
pleasure,  differing  in  kind  from  every  other ;  be- 
cause it  gratifies  a  peculiar  desire,  which  is  not 
excited  by  the  conception  of  any  external-  cir- 
cumstance, but  solely  by  the  thought  of  pure, 

its  own  sake.  That  one  sublime  love  would  embrace  the  whole 
range  of  desirous  susceptibility  in  the  mind. 


282     ESSAY  ON  THE  PHILOSOPHICAL 

disinterested  affection,  or  qualities  conducive  to 
it.  By  this  confusion  of  the  pleasures  and  pains, 
dependent  on  moral  desire,  with  others  which 
result  from  extrinsic  circumstances,  and  never 
therefore  can  affect  the  essentials  of  our  emotivt 
constitution,  although  they  may  accidentally  be 
connected  with  its  operations,  the  door  was 
opened  to  those  dangerous  heresies,  which  set 
up  external  advantages,  as  the  legitimate  aims  of 
virtue,  and  discourage  not  only  the  refined  en- 
joyments that  rest  in  contemplation,  but  that 
large  proportion  of  a  happy  life,  which  is  com- 
posed of  subtle  and  minute  pleasures,  accom- 
panying action  and  evanescent  in  it,  leaving  few 
distinct  traces  perhaps  in  our  visible  existence, 
but  unspeakably  valuable,  because  they  commu- 
nicate a  healthful  tone  to  our  whole  mental  sys- 
tem. In  spite  of  these  grievous  errors,  whose 
consequences  ran  riot  through  many  generations, 
there  was  this  merit  in  the  Epicurean  theory, 
that  it  laid  the  basis  of  morality  in  the  right 
quarter.  Sentiment,  not  thought,  was  declared 
the  motive  power :  the  agent  acted  from  feel- 
ing, and  was  by  feeling  :  thoughts  were  but  the 
ligatures  that  held  together  the  delicate  mate- 
rials of  emotion. 


WRITINGS  OF  CICERO.  283 

But  the  doctrine,  which  has  conferred  immor- 
tality on  the  name  of  Zeno  of  Cittium,  contained 
no  sound  psychological  principle.  It  was  wrong 
in  the  beginning,  wrong  in  the  middle,  wrong  in 
the  end.  It  was  not  less  opposed  to  the  Epi- 
curean system  in  its  fundamental  principles,  than 
in  its  practical  results.  Impressed  with  the 
grandeur  of  moral  excellence,  and  the  beauty 
of  that  universal  harmony  which  it  seems  to  sub- 
serve, the  Stoics  thought  they  could  not  recede 
too  far  from  the  maxims  of  their  irreligious  op- 
ponents.* They  protested  against  the  simple 
tenet,  from  which  such  fatal  consequences  were 
ostensibly  derived.  "  Not  the  capacity  of  pleas- 
ure," they  said,  "  but  the  desire  of  self-preserva- 
tion, was  the  original  cause  of  choice  and  rejec- 
tion in  the  human  mind."  They  did  not  perceive 
they  were  beginning  a  step  lower  than  the  Epi- 
cureans, without  in  the  least  affecting  that  axiom, 
which  alone  in  fact  could  make  this  step  possi- 
ble. For  how  can  we  conceive  a  desire  of  which 
pleasure  is  not  a  component  part?  There  can 
be  no  desire  in  the  mind,  until  some  object  is 

*  Zeno  came  into  the  field  before  his  rival :  but  there  can  be  no 
question  that  the  Stoical  doctrines  were  much  influenced,  and  kept 
in  extremes,  by  the  repelling  force  of  the  new  opinions. 


284      ESSAY  ON  THE  PHILOSOPHICAL 

contemplated  as  delightful.  Again,  Self  only 
exists  to  our  consciousness  as  the  common  char- 
acter of  a  series  of  momentary  beings.  The 
proposition,  I  desire  my  preservation,  includes,  if 
it  is  not  defined  by,  this  other ;  one  of  these  mo- 
mentary beings  exists  in  the  pleasurable  thought 
of  a  possible  successor.  Now,  what  has  made 
the  thought  pleasurable  ?  Unquestionably,  a  pre- 
vious experience  of  similar  states  to  that  which 
the  thought  represents.  A  majority  of  such 
states,  then,  must  have  been  attended  with 
pleasure  ;  and  any  argument  for  the  early  origin 
and  universal  tenure  of  our  appetite  for  exist- 
ence, goes  to  establish  on  a  firmer  basis  that 
priority  and  universality  of  the  obnoxious  HSov??, 
for  which  Epicurus  contended,  since  it  neces- 
sarily presumes  that  agreeable  feeling  is  attached 
to  the  exercise  of  every  faculty.  The  next  great 
dogma  of  the  Stoics  was  sadly  destitute  of  meta- 
physical precision,  however  useful  it  might  be  in 
moral  exhortation.  Man  ought  to  live  agreeably 
to  nature.  The  nature  of  man,  they  proceeded 
to  explain,  was  rational,  and  the  law  of  right 
reason  therefore  was  the  criterion  of  conduct, 
and  the  source  of  obligation.  This  law,  they 
said,  was  imprinted  on  every  mind :  it  was  per- 


WRITINGS   OF   CICERO.  285 

manent,  it  was  universal ;  it  was  absolute  :  there 
could  be  no  appeal  from  a  decision,  which  was 
the  voice  of  unchangeable  Divinity.  By  listen- 
ing to  this  internal  mandate  we  acquire  a  sense 
of  moral  obligation,  which  nothing  else  can  con- 

O  J  O 

fer :  for  we  are  irresistibly  led  to  perceive  our 
position,  as  parts  of  a  system,  and  the  consequent 
impropriety  of  all  acts  that  tend  to  an  individual 
purpose,  instead  of  furthering  the  great  plans 
of  universal  legislation.  It  does  not  seem  very 
clear,  whether  the  supporters  of  this  theory  add- 
ed to  it,  as  many  since  have  done,  the  notion  of 
an  immediate  perception  of  Right  and  Wrong  by 
the  intellect,  or  whether  they  derived  the  intel- 
lectual conviction  simply  from  a  reflective  survey 
of  the  several  bearings  and  relations  of  mental 
states,  and  a  strong  conviction  from  experience, 
that  whatever  holds  good  for  one  intelligent  and 
sentient  being,  will  hold  good  wherever  these 
qualities  obtain.  These,  however,  are  the  two 
forms  which  the  Intellectual  theory  has  assumed, 
and  in  neither  of  these,  I  think,  can  its  lofty  pre- 
tensions be  justified.  To  the  first  opinion,  that 
of  immediate  perception,  it  may  be  sufficient  to 
reply,  that  until  it  can  be  shown  that  our  notion 


286     ESSAY  ON  THE  PHILOSOPHICAL 

of  Right  expresses  essentially*  anything  more 
than  a  relation  and  character  of  feeling,  it  would 
be  highly  unphilosophical  to  substitute  for  this 
simple,  reflective  notion,  which  we  all  under- 
stand, a  phenomenon,  perfectly  dissimilar  by  the 
terms  of  its  definition  from  every  other  mental 
state,  and  yet  producing  no  effect  in  the  mind, 
that  might  not  as  well  be  produced  by  those  nat- 
ural processes  which  prevail  in  every  other  in- 
stance. The  second  view  is  undoubtedly  correct 
in  itself,  but  the  "  budge  doctors  "  have  taken  it 
out  of  place.  It  embraces  the  result  of  certain 
mental  combinations,  not  their  origin,  or  their 
law.  We  come  to  know  that  we  are  parts  of  a 
system,  and  to  perceive  that  additional  charm 
in  virtue,  which  it  derives  from  association  with 
intellectual  congraity,  long  after  we  have  felt 
ourselves  moral  beings ;  and  it  may  be  ques- 
tioned whether  the  addition  makes  much  differ- 

*  I  say  "  essentially,"  because  it  is  undoubtedly  true  that  many 
notions  have  been  so  joined  with  this  by  custom,  as  to  coalesce  with 
it  in  the  eyes  of  ordinary  reflection.  That  of  a  Supreme  Governor, 
for  instance,  and  our  duty  to  him  as  living  under  his  rule,  which  is 
clearly  transferred  from  our  observation  of  civil  society.  That  of 
Utility,  also,  and  of  Beauty ;  and  these  are  more  readily  imagined 
by  the  mind,  as  being  more  connected  with  visible  forms,  than  a 
feeling  which  has  no  outward  object,  but  is  terminated  by  a  spirit- 
ual disposition  like  itself. 


WRITINGS   OF  CICERO.  287 

ence  in  the  conduct  of  any,  except  perhaps  the 
few  whose  minds  have  been  exclusively  directed 
to  the  peculiar  pleasures  of  scientific  meditation. 
But  the  vice  of  this  celebrated  theory  lies  deeper 
—  in  the  motive  of  its  adoption  ;  the  wrong  wish 
to  obtain  a  greater  certainty  for  the  operations  of 
feeling  than  its  own  nature  affords,  supported  by 
the  wrong  supposition  that  this  certainty  would 
be  found  within  the  domain  of  intellect.  "  Man 
is,  what  he  knows."  The  pregnant  words  of 
Bacon  !  but  this  is  only  true,  because  he  knows 
what  he  feels.  We  are  apt  to  be  misled  by  the 
common  use  of  language,  which  sets  reason  or 

c?          O      '  . 

reflection  in  one  scale,  and  impulse  or  feeling  in 
the  other,  and  appropriates  a  right  course  of  con- 
duct to  the  former  alone.  The  fact  is,  as  may 
be  evident  to  any  who  will  take  the  pains  to  con- 
sider, that  reflection  has  no  more  immediate  in- 
fluence 011  action  in  the  one  case  than  in  the 
other.  But  here  lies  the  difference  :  reflection 
may  bring  up  conceptions  of  many  feelings, 
good,  bad,  and  indifferent,  so  that  the  mind  may 
choose  ;  but  those  who  act  from  the  impulse  of 
one  predominant  passion  without  allowing  the 
intervention  of  any  conceptive  state,  debar  them- 
selves from  their  power  of  election,  and  volun- 
tarily act  as  slaves. 


288     ESSAY  ON  THE  PHILOSOPHICAL 

We  are  now  better  enabled  to  consider  the 
question,  which  of  these  two  sects,  Stoic  or  Epi- 
curean, did  most  for  the  advance  of  psychological 
knowledge,  and,  if  the  foregoing  observations  be 
founded  on  truth,  we  cannot,  I  think,  hesitate  to 
pronounce,  that  it  was  not  that  sect  which  did 
most  for  the  general  increase  of  moral  and  re- 
ligious cultivation.  The  ardor,  with  which  the 
followers  of  Zeno  contemplated  the  holiness  of 
conscience,  led  them  to  subvert  the  fundamen- 
tal distinctions  of  nature,  in  order  to  establish 
that  adorable  queen  on  what  they  considered 
a  securer  throne.  On  the  other  side,  the  soph- 
ists of  the  Garden,  who  unfortunately  for  them- 
selves withstood  the  great  instincts  of  humanity, 
and  turned  the  legitimate  war  against  superstition 
into  an  assault  on  the  strongholds  of  religious 
faith,  had  no  temptation  to  neglect  or  pervert 
those  observations  of  experience,  which  at  first 
sight  seemed  to  favor  their  misguided  predilec- 
tions. They  stopped  too  short,  and  they  assumed 
too  much  ;  but  they  pointed  to  some  primary 
truths,  which,  though  simple,  were,  it  seems,  lia- 
ble to  neglect,  and  the  nearest  deductions  from 
which  it  has  taken  many  centuries  to  disentan- 
gle from  error,  the  unavoidable  consequence  of 


WRITINGS   OF  CICERO.  289 

greater  laxity  in  investigation,  prompted  by  the  . 
same  anxiety  to  promote  the  cause  of  morals  by 
confusing  it  with  that  of  science,  which  in  a  dif- 
ferent, and  certainly  less  pardonable  form,  threw 
Galileo  into  his  dungeon,  and  still  raises  a  fac- 
tious clamor  against  the  discoveries  of  Geology, 
and  any  effectual  application  of  criticism  to  the 
stvle  and  tenor  of  the  Biblical  writings.  That 

i  O 

in  the  eternal  harmony  of  things,  as  it  subsists  in 
the  creative  idea  of  the  Almighty,  the  two  sepa- 
rate worlds  of  intellect  and  emotion  conspire  to 
the  same  end,  the  possible  perfection  of  human 
nature ;  that  in  proportion  as  we  "  close  up  truth 
to  truth,"  we  discover  a  greater  correspondence 
between  the  imaginative  suggestions,  on  which 
the  heart  reposes,  and  the  actual  results  of  accu- 
mulated experience,  so  that  we  may  enlarge  and 
strengthen  in  ourselves  the  expectation  of  their 
perfect  coincidence  in  some  future  condition  of 
being  ;  that  the  revelations  of  Christianity,  while 
they  approve  themselves  to  our  minds  by  their 
thorough  conformity  to  the  human  character, 
appearing,  as  Coleridge  expresses  it,  "  ideally, 
morally,  and  historically  true,"  afford  a  pledge 
of  this  ultimate  union,  and  in  many  important 
respects  a  realization  of  it  to  our  present  selves  ; 
19 


290      ESSAY  ON  THE  PHILOSOPHICAL 

these  considerations  should  encourage  every  man, 
who  makes  them  a  part  of  his  belief,  not  to  re- 
fuse his  assent  to  a  truth  of  observation  because 
it  is  impossible  to  prove  from  it  a  truth  of  feel- 
ing, and  still  less  to  flatter  mankind  into  an 
agreeable  delusion  by  suborning  a  fictitious  ori- 
gin to  notions,  which  are  not  really  less  expres- 
sive of  eternal  truth,  because  they  result  from 
those  simple  elements  and  general  laws,  which 
the  human  intellect  is  invited,  because  it  is  en- 
abled, to  master,  but  beyond  which  "  neque  scit, 
neque  potest." 

In  adopting  the  Stoical  system,  Cicero  pledged 
himself  to  its  errors,  and  became  involved  in  its 
confusion.  He  was  less  dogmatical  than  his 
teachers ;  thanks  to  the  Academic  bias :  but  he 
was  also  less  subtle,  less  strong-sighted,  and 
never  clearly  understood  the  question  in  debate. 
Justly  incensed  at  the  indolence  and  spreading 
immorality  which  characterized  the  Epicureans 
of  his  time,  he  commenced  a  war  of  extermina- 
tion against  the  doctrine  of  "  Gargettius  ille,"  to 
whose  authority  they  appealed  with  almost  filial 
reverence.  But  he  neither  did  justice  to  his 
rdal  merits,  nor  perceived  where  his  fallacy  lay. 
There  is  a  singular  perplexity  in  his  arguments 


WRITINGS   OF  CICERO.  291 

on  this  subject,  and  a  feebleness  even  in  his  decla- 
mation. We  learn  from  himself  that  his  antaso- 

o 

nists  (not  those  who,  created  for  the  purpose  of 
being  refuted,  figure  in  his  dialogues,  but  the 
less  easy  gentlemen  whom  he  met  with  in  real 
life)  complained  loudly  of  his  misapprehensions ; 
and  the  fretful  spirit,  in  which  he  alludes  to  the 
charge,  betrays  a  consciousness  that  it  was  not 
wholly  imfounded.* 

*  "  Itaque  hoc  frequenter  dici  solet  a  vobis,  nos  non  intelligere 
quam  dicat  Epicurus  voluptatem.  Quod  quidem  mihi  siquan- 
do  dictum  est  (est  autem  dictum  non  parum  scepe)  etsi  satis  cle- 
mens  sum  in  disputando,  tamen  interdum  soleo  subirasci."  —  De- 
fin.  1.  ii.,  c.  4.  If  we  compare  the  elegant  sketch  of  Epicurean 
philosophy  in  Diogenes  Laertius,  and  the  authentic  writings  there 
preserved  of  Epicurus  himself,  with  this  second  book,  we  shall  be 
at  no  loss  for  errors  of  omission  and  commission  on  the  part  of 
Cicero.  For  example,  he  puts  the  case  of  an  extravagantly 
drunken  fellow,  who,  he  says,  quoting  the  words  of  Lucilius, 
supped  always  "  libenter,"  but  never  "  bene."  Therefore,  he 
infers,  the  Supreme  Good  cannot  consist  in  pleasure,  since  good 
and  pleasure  do  not  always  coincide.  As  if  it  might  not  be  true 
that  all  pleasures,  quoad  pleasures,  are  good,  because  akin  to  the 
"  arapajia,"  sought  as  the  final  good,  and  yet  it  might  be  neces- 
sary to  reject  certain  pleasures,  not  because  they  were  such,  but 
because  their  result  would  be  a  preponderance  of  misery !  Epicu- 
rus never  confounded  the  subordinate  and  relative  importance  of 
ordinary  pleasures  with  the  indispensable  importance  of  that 
pleasure,  which  consisted  "  vivendo  bene."  In  the  book  De 
Senectnte,  we  find  "  Quocirca  nihil  esse  tarn  detestabile,  tamque 
pestiferum,  quam  voluptatem;  siquidum  ea,  cum  major  esset 


292     ESSAY  ON  THE  PHILOSOPHICAL 

However  unsound  may  have  been  these  first 
principles  of  Ciceronian  philosophy,  and  however 
uncongenial  to  the  elements  of  positive  religion, 
they  were  far  from  exhibiting  any  repugnance  to 
the  fundamental  articles  of  Natural  Theology. 
A  Supreme  Lawgiver  was  the  natural  comple- 
ment of  an  universal  law  ;  and  they  who  ex- 
tended so  wide  the  rightful  empire  of  reason 
upon  earth,  could  not  fail  to  rejoice  -when  they 
saw  her  seated,  without  opposition,  and  without 
fear  of  change,  on  the  throne  of  the  universe. 
That  Cicero  gave  a  cordial,  if  not  always  an 
unhesitating  adhesion  to  the  first  article  of  ra- 
tional belief,  may  be  fairly  gathered  from  many 
passages  in  his  works,  in  which  he  treats  of  this 
important  subject.  His  intellect  perceived  its 
evidences,  and  his  imagination  exulted  in  its 
grandeur.  It  is  not  easy  perhaps  for  us,  who 
live  in  a  Christian  country,  at  an  advanced  period 
of  Christian  civilization,  and  have  been  familiarly 
acquainted  with  the  great  propositions  of  Theism 
from  our  earliest  childhood,  hearing  them  week- 

atque  longior,  omne  animi  lumen  extingueret." —  De  Sen.,  c.  12. 
He  is  speaking  of  corporeal  pleasure;  but  can  anything  be  more 
absurd  than  to  proscribe  a  thing  altogether,  because,  if  increased  to 
an  imaginary  and  extraordinary  extent,  it  will  tend  to  destroy 
another  thing  more  valuable  than  itself? 


WRITINGS  OF  CICERO.  293 

ly  from  the  pulpit,  and  meeting  them  daily  in 
some  shape  or  other,  in  literature  or  conversa- 
tion ;  it  is  not  easy,  I  say,  for  us  to  conceive  the 
silent  rapture,  and  the  eloquent  praise,  with 
which  the  philosophers  of  former  time  ap- 
proached that  idea  of  a  Supreme  Mind,  which 
had  been  the  object,  and  seemed  to  contain  the 
recompense  of  their  solitary  meditations.  In 
addition  to  its  natural  beauties,  there  was  this 
relative  attraction,  that  it  was  unknown  and 
supposed  inaccessible  to  the  multitude.  The 
vast  proportion  of  the  race,  who  drew  human 
breath,  and  felt  human  sensations,  but  on  whose 
mental  organization  not  much  creative  power 
had  been  expended,  these  poor  wWrcu  must  be 
abandoned  to  live  and  die  under  the  influence  of 
prone  credulity,  perhaps  of  superstitious  depra- 
vation :  but  k  was  the  privilege  of  superior  intel- 
ligence to  offer  a  pure  and  reasonable  worship  in 
the  "  Edita  doctrina  sapientum  templa  serena." 
Perhaps  the  Roman  statesman  was  especially 
gratified,  when  he  learned  to  contemplate  the 
universe  under  the  forms  of  order  and  adminis- 
tration. At  least,  this  is  the  aspect  he  most  de- 
lights to  present  to  us.  All  created  beings, 
according  to  him,  form  one  immense  common- 

o  ' 


294     ESSAY  ON  THE  PHILOSOPHICAL 

wealth  ;  and  never  has  his  eloquence  so  stately  a 
march,  or  so  sonorous  a  measure,  as  when,  close- 
ly treading  on  the  vestige  of  Plato,  he  announces 
the  indelible  sanctity  of  human  law,  and  its 
foundations,  not  in  blind  concurrence,  but  in  the 
universal  analogies  of  an  Eternal  Mind. 

His  arguments  are  of  the  description  usually 
called  a  posteriori,  and  are  exactly  adapted,  by 
their  clearness  and  their  strength,  to  produce 
general  impression,  and  to  silence,  even  where 
they  do  not  convince.  He  dwells  on  the  natural 
relation  which  experience  proves  to  exist  be- 
tween the  supposition  of  Deity  and  the  tenden- 
cies of  human  belief;  on  the  general,  if  not 
universal,  custom  of  nations,  ancient  and  recent, 
barbarian  and  civilized  ;  on  the  stability  afforded 
by  Theism  to  the  conclusions  of  reason,  the  in- 
stitutions of  polity,  and  the  natural  expectation  of 
a  future  state.  Above  all  he  directs  attention 
to  the  harmony  of  the  visible  universe,*  the 

*  "  Esse  praestantem  aliquam,  aeternamque  naturam,  et  earn 
suspiciendam  admirandamque  hominum  gencri,  pulchritude  mun- 
di,  ordoque  rerum  ccelestium  cogit  confiteri."  —  De  Divin.,  1.  ii.,  c. 
72.  "  Quae  quanta  consilio  gerantur,  nos  nullo  consilio  assequi 
possumus."  —  De  Nat.  De.,  1.  ii.,  c.  38.  "  Ccelestem  ergo  admira- 
bilcm  ordinem  .  .  .  qui  vacare  mente  putat,  is  ipse  mentis  expers 
habendus  est."  —  De  Nat.  De.,  1.  ii.  See  the  whole  of  this  book, 
especially  the  eloquent  translation  of  a  passage  from  Aristotle. 


WRITINGS  OF  CICERO.  295 

order  and  beauty  of  the  celestial  motions  and  fhe 
subserviency  of  material  objects  to  the  conven- 
ience of  organic  life.  How  should  the  innu- 
merable and  wonderful  combinations,  which  our 
apprehension  is  tasked  in  vain  to  exhaust,  be 
referred  to  an  origin  of  inapprehensive  fate,  or 
void  casualty  ?  How  may  a  world,  where  all  is 
regular  and  mechanically  progressive,  arise  from 
a  declension  of  atoms,  which  would  never  be 
considered  a  possible  cause  of  the  far  inferior 
mechanism  resulting  from  human  invention  ? 
It  is  the  character  of  this  argument  to  in- 
crease in  cumulative  force,  as  the  dominion  of 
man  over  surrounding  nature  becomes  enlarged, 
and  each  new  discovery  of  truth  elicits  a  corre- 
sponding harmony  of  design.  Beautiful  as  the 
fitness  of  things  appeared  in  the  eyes  of  Cicero, 
how  insignificant  was  the  spectacle  when  com- 
pared to  the  face-  of  nature,  as  we  behold  it,  il- 
luminated on  every  side,  and  reflected  in  a 
thousand  mirrors  of  science  ?  What  then  was 
the  study  of  the  mortal  frame  ?  What  the 
condition  of  experimental  physics  ?  What  the 
knowledge  of  those  two  infinities  which  awaited 
invisibly  the  revealing  powers  of  the  micros- 
cope, and  the  "  glass  of  Fiesole  ?  "  Long  after 


296     ESSAY  ON  THE  PHILOSOPHICAL 

the  genius  of  whom  I  write  had  passed  from 
his  earthly  sphere  of  agency,  "  the  contem- 
plation of  an  animal  skeleton  flashed  conviction 
on  the  mind  of  Galen,  and  kindled  his  solitary 
meditation  into  a  hymn  of  praise."1  It  was  later 
yet  by  many  ages,  when  the  voice  of  one,  to 
whom  science  is  indebted  for  her  new  organi- 
zation, and  learning  for  her  manifold  advance- 
ment, proclaimed  to  a  timid  generation,  "  that 
much  (physical)  philosophy  would  bring  back  a 
man  to  religion."  Still  nearer  our  memory  that 
patient  thinker  —  who  laid  open  to  the  eyes  of 
his  understanding  the  simple  governing  law,  and 
the  interminable  procession  of  subject  worlds  — 
Newton  found  room  for  the  Creator  in  the  crea- 
tion, and  passed  with  ease  from  the  interrogation 
of  second  causes  to  the  exalted  strain  of  piety,  in 
which  he  penned  the  concluding  chapter  of  his 
Principia. 

But  to  whatever  extent  our  choice  of  materi- 
als for  this  argument  has  been  enlarged,  and 
whatever  additional  beauty  and  interest  have 
accrued  to  their  application,  the  argument  itself, 
resting  upon  simple  notions  of  the  understanding, 
and  an  induction,  which,  though  large,  was  yet 

*  COLEKIDGE.    Aids  to  Reflection. 


WRITINGS  OF  CICERO.  297 

abundantly  supplied  by  the  earliest  objects  of 
sensation,  may  be  considered  as  almost  coeval 
with  the  intelligence  of  man,  and  had  no  less 
philosophical  weight  under  the  sway  of  Ptolemy 
than  beneath  the  enlightened  ascendency  of 
Copernicus  ;  no  less  dignity  of  reason  in  the 
mouth  of  Anaxagoras,  when  to  his  survey  of  the 
various  phenomena  presented  by  matter  and  mo- 
tion, he  added  the  solemn  and  necessary  for- 
mula of  completion,  "  Accessit  Mens,"  as  when 
adorned  in  later  times  by  the  graceful  industry 
of  Ray,  or  the  lucid  strength  of  Paley.  Let  us 
transport  ourselves,  in  imagination,  to  the  con- 
templative solitude  and  lofty  conversations  ol 
our  Roman  philosopher,  when  wearied  with  the 
business  of  the  city,  or  despairing  of  the  republic 
(then  in  danger  of  forgetting  her  hatred  of  single 
domination  at  the  feet  of  the  most  accomplished 
of  usurpers),  he  retired  to  shady  Tusculum,  or 
limpid  Fibrenus,  or  the  shores  of  that  beauti- 
ful bay,  which  "  nullus  in  orbe  sinus  praelucet." 
In  those  memorable  periods  of  seclusion  from  a 
world,  which  was  tempestuous  and  distressful 
then,  and  has  not  changed  its  character  now,  he 
had  leisure  to  observe  the  wonders  of  natural 
operation,  and  to  speculate  on  those  final  causes, 


298     ESSAY  Off  THE  PHILOSOPHICAL 

which  give  them  a  higher  meaning  than  the  bare 
senses  can  perceive.  He  saw  the  eartli  covered 
with  fruits  from  which  man  derived  his  suste- 
nance :  the  procession  of  the  seasons,  the  alter- 
nation of  day  with  night,  bespoke  a  providential 
care  for  those  vital  functions,  whose  tenure  is  so 
frail,  while  their  empire  is  so  extensive.  If  he 
directed  his  eyes  to  the  Italian  heaven,  we  can 
hardly  perhaps  assert  that  the  same  prospect 
would  be  disclosed  to  him,  which  appears  to  a 
modern  observer :  for  knowledge  will  vary  and 
tinge,  not  indeed  the  perceptions  of  sense,  but 
the  emotions  arising  out  of  them,  with  which 
they  are  closely  intertwined,  and  which  lan- 
guage, never  rapid  enough  to  go  along  with 
quick  mental  succession,  comprehends  under  the 
general  expression,  significant  of  the  sensitive 
act.  Yet  to  the  mere  sight  that  prospect  was 
the  same.  The  stars  rose  and  set  in  their  ap- 
pointed  courses.  The  moon  presented  her  vari- 
ous phases  with  a  regularity  that  never  deceived 
anticipation.  The  appearance  of  a  wandering 
comet  was  too  rare  to  dislodge  the  impression  of 
design,  while  even  learning,  unable  to  explain 
that  phenomenon,  was  content  to  lend  its  aid  to 
superstition,  and  to  consider  the  apparently  law- 


WRITINGS   OF  CICERO.  299 

less  intruder  as  a  commissioned  herald  of  change, 
and  "perplexer  of  monarchs."  That  which  after 
all  is  the  most  important  thing  we  can  observe, 
and  of  which  our  perception  and  belief  are  neces- 
sarily more  immediate  than  of  anything  else,  the 
Mind  itself,  furnished  abundant  evidence  of  pur- 
pose by  its  minute  and  multiplied  corresponden- 
cies. Could  Cicero  think  of  his  own  being,  and 
not  find  it  full  of  mysterious  harmony  ?  Fear- 
fully and  wonderfully  he,  like  all  of  us,  was 
made.  Endless  are  the  divers  undulations  of 
sentiment  and  idea,  which  pass  through,  if  they 
do  not  compose,  the  sentient  being :  yet  they 
fluctuate  according  to  settled  laws,  and  every 
faculty  keeps  its  prescribed  limits,  without  any 
variation,  or  the  least  disturbance.* 

*  It  will  be  right  also  to  remember,  that  while  the  exact  sim- 
ilarity in  the  kind  of  mutual  fitness,  which  in  so  many  dissimilar 
instances  one  thing  bears  to  another,  prevents  our  considering  the 
argument  itself  as  acquiring  any  accession  of  intrinsic  strength  in 
proportion  to  the  growth  of  knowledge,  the  most  powerful  among 
the  sceptical  objections  to  its  validity  have  increased  in  that  very 
ratio.  Sextus  Empiricus  was  a  bold  doubter,  but  he  wanted  the 
advantages  of  position  possessed  by  David  Hume.  Until  the  anal- 
ysis of  mind  had  been  rigorously  pursued  by  inductive  philoso- 
phers, so  many  states  of  mental  existence  appeared  simple  and 
ultimate,  which  have  since  been  shown  to  be  compounded,  and  the 
abuse  of  the  words  Faculty,  Power,  Reason,  Imagination,  and  some 
others,  had  so  nattered  men  into  the  impression  that  they  possessed 


300     ESSAY  ON  THE  PHILOSOPHICAL 

But  the  "  perturbatrix   Academia "  was  not 
entirely  silent.     Cicero  knew  that,  if  he  missed 

a  great  deal  of  proper  activity  in  the  soul,  independent  of,  and  an- 
terior to  the  actual  states  of  which  they  were  conscious,  that  the 
dependent,  composite,  and  divisible  character  of  the  only  thinking 
and  feeling  substance  with  which  they  were  acquainted  was  apt  to 
escape  observation,  or  at  least  not  to  appear  in  its  completeness  and 
universality.  When  questioned  concerning  the  origin  of  things,  a 
modern  Pantheist  feels  a  repugnance  to  the  usual  answer,  because 
it  extends  causation  beyond  the  system,  comprehending  within  it- 
self the  subjective  form  as  well  as  the  objective  application  of  that 
mode,  and  because  it  makes  an  imaginary  repetition  of  one  part  in 
a  system  (».  e.  of  an  effect  seemingly  organized  and  therefore  by 
the  argument  from  Final  Causes  justifying  an  inference  of  design) 
to  account  for  the  existence  of  the  whole  system,  and  to  be  itself 
the  self-existent  and  designing  cause.  Whatever  may  be  the  real 
strength  of  this  shaft,  it  will  always  glance  aside  from  those  who 
have  grounded  their  assurance  on  the  testimonies  of  revealed  re- 
ligion. The  supposed  objector  may  by  them  be  ranked  in  the  in- 
nocuous company  of  Berosus,  Ocellus  Lucanus,  and  our  good  old 
friend  in  the  novel,  who  was  so  apt  a  learner  of  their  "  avap%ov 
KOC  urefavTaiav  TO  irav."  They  will  probably  be  disposed  to  recog- 
nize the  hand  of  Providence  in  this,  that  the  most  necessary  article 
of  belief  was  supported  in  times  of  inferior  knowledge  by  an  ar- 
gument, which,  from  the  constitution  of  the  human  understanding, 
is  adapted  to  produce  the  strongest  impression,  and  that  philosophy 
was  not  ripe  for  the  suggestion  of  anything  even  plausible  on  the 
other  side,  until  a  city  of  permanent  refuge  had  been  prepared  for 
human  weakness.  But  the  self-satisfied  Deist,  who  in  his  anxiety 
for  the  simple  and  the  rational,  has  reduced  to  so  small  a  number 
the  positive  articles  of  his  belief,  will  do  well  to  examine,  whether 
the  remainder  have  all  that  absolute  impregnability,  and  demonstra- 
tive clearness,  which  he  seems  so  persuaded  of. 


WRITINGS  OF   CICERO.  301 

truth  by  the  way  of  free  inquiry,  "  he  should  not 
miss  the  reward  of  it."  In  the  person  of  the 
Academic  Cotta  he  has  displayed  that  principle 
of  his  own  mind  which  always  rebelled  against 
too  much  appearance  of  certainty.  The  dia- 
logues "  De  Natura  Deorum,"  and  the  book  "  De 
Divinatione,"  are  excellent  specimens  of  Cicero's 
best  rhetorical  talents,  his  acuteness,  his  quick  per- 
ception, and  his  legal  sagacity.  It  would  be  much 
against  my  conscience  to  ascribe  to  him  either 
wit  or  humor :  yet  there  is  sometimes  an  arch- 
ness of  remark,  and  a  learned  pleasantry,  which 
have  not  unfrequently  reminded  me  of  Bayle. 

The  doctrine  of  human  immortality  is  so  ex- 
cellent a  theme  for  the  energy  of  declamation, 
and  the  triumph  of  debate,  that,  were  there  no 
other  and  better  reason,  we  might  on  this  ac- 
count have  expected  to  find  Cicero  its  eloquent 
defender.  But  his  heart  needed  it,  as  well  as 
his  head.  Struggling  all  his  long  and  varied  life 
with  political  and  private  tempests,  banished  by 
the  intrigues  of  one,  betrayed  by  the  perfidy  of 
another,  slighted  by  those  on  whom  he  had  con- 
ferred inestimable  benefits,  yet  assured  still  by 
his  own  feelings  of  the  sanctity  of  affection,  and 

the  intrinsic  excellence  of  virtue,  it  was  natural 
*  LOCKE. 


302     ESSAY  ON  THE  PHILOSOPHICAL 

indeed  that  a  man,  to  whom  life  had  been  such  a 
scene  of  trial,  should  find  peculiar  satisfaction  in 
anticipating  a  state  hereafter,  in  which  the  in- 
ward strength  should  be  greater,  and  the  out- 
ward conditions  less  severe.  There  is  no  topic, 
accordingly,  to  which  Cicero  applied  himself  with 
greater  ardor,  and  none  perhaps  on  which  he  had 
succeeded  better  in  communicating  his  own  view 
to  the  minds  of  succeeding  generations.  The 
mode  of  thought  in  which  he  apprehends  the 
subject,  the  expressions  he  employs,  the  figures 
and  allusions  which  illustrate  and  point  his  argu- 
ments, have  long  since  become  familiar  common- 
places, and  continue,  I  suppose,  in  more  cases 
than  we  incline  to  imagine,  to  give  habitual  color 
to  the  uncertain  notions  of  "  that  mob  of  gentle- 
men who  think  with  ease." 

In  opposition  to  his  general  course  of  senti- 
ment on  this  subject  must  be  ranked  a  few  sen- 
tences, Scattered  through  his  works,  in  which  the 
other,  the  darker  view,  suggests  itself,  and  is 
not  for  awhile  authoritatively  repelled.  Some 
of  these  dubious  expressions  occur  in  letters  to 
Epicurean  friends,  and  may  be  considered  as 
accommodations  to  their  fixed  opinion.*  Others 
*  See  Epitt.  Famil.  5,  16;  ib.  21,  6,  3;  ib.  4;  ib.  21. 


WRITINGS   OF  CICERO.  303 

are  the  offspring  of  mental  distress,  and  repre- 
sent with  painful  fidelity  that  mood  between  con- 
tentment and  despair,  in  which  suffering  appears 
so  associated  with  existence  that  we  would  will- 
ingly give  up  one  with  the  other,  and  look  for- 
ward with  a  sort  of  hope  to  that  silent  void 
where,  if  there  are  no  smiles,  there  are  at  least 
no  tears,  and  since  the  heart  cannot  beat,  it  will 
not  .ever  be  broken.  This  is  within  the  range 
of  most  men's  feeling,  and  it  were  morose  to 
blame  Cicero  for  giving  it  expression.  The 
truth  is,  however,  that  a  cloud  of  doubt  could 
not  but  obscure  the  land  of  promise  from  the 
eyes  of  Pagan  moralists.  The  wise  distrusted 
this  doctrine,  because  it  was  favored  by  their 
passions.  The  good  thought  the  possession  of 
virtue  might  perhaps  be  its  own  reward.  It 
must  be  allowed  that  the  subtle,  verbal  argu- 
ments, by  which  Cicero,  in  common  with  most 
other  ancients,  sought  to  confer  an  appearance 
of  logical  proof  on  propositions  which  can  never 
admit  a  higher  evidence  than  probability,  must 
have  seemed,  when  they  did  not  happen  to  be  in 
a  humor  for  dialectics,  as  frail  and  unsatisfactory 
as  the  pretended  demonstrations  of  their  oppo- 
nents. What,  for  instance,  can  be  more  vague 


304      ESSAY  ON  THE  PHILOSOPHICAL 

and  sophistical  than  the  curious  piece  of  reason- 
ing which  Cicero  inserts  in  his  Republic,  as  a 
worthy  and  dignified  conclusion  to  the  most  sol- 
emn part  of  that  performance  ?  *  Nay,  lest  any 
of  the  due  effect  should  be  wanting,  he  puts  it 
into  the  mouth  of  an  immortal  being,  who  wishes 
by  the  communication  of  convincing  truth  to 
raise  the  inheritor  of  his  earthly  glory  to  a  par- 
ticipation in  his  celestial  repose.  It  was  trans- 
ferred from  the  Phaedo  of  the  divine  Athenian, 
where  it  stands,  I  must  confess,  in  rank  and  file 
with  many  others  not  more  conclusive  than  itself. 
But  I  have  already  declared  my  belief,  that  they 
have  done  wrong  to  the  memory  of  Plato,  and 
have  shown  themselves  incapable  of  the  spirit  of 
his  philosophy,  who  suppose  that  in  his  Dialogues 
the  main  impression  is  intended  to  be  produced 
by  the  direct  statement  of  opinion,  or  any  incul- 
cation of  complete  notions  by  the  way  of  argu- 
'  ment.  Admirable  as  the  method  is,  with  which 
the  Socratic  colloquists  conduct  their  debates,  the 
validity  of  the  premises  or  of  the  conclusions  was 
not  equally  an  object  of  attention  in  the  compre- 
hensive mind  that  invented  their  discussions. 
Not  that  he  was  indifferent  to  truth ;  but  he 

*  See  Somn.  Scip.,  at  the  end  of  the  "  De  RepublicIL" 


WRITINGS   OF  CICERO.  305 

chose  to  convey  it  dramatically,  and  trusted 
more  to  the  suggestions  of  his  reader's  heart  than 
the  convictions  of  his  critical  understanding. 

Two  things  are  especially  worthy  of  notice  in 
Cicero's  exposition  of  his  viewrs  concerning  futu- 
rity. The  first  is,  that  contrary  to  the  opinions 
of  most  ancient  philosophers,  he  promises  the 
highest  rewards  to  those~~who  cultivated  an  ac- 
tive life,  and  busied  themselves  in  political  pur- 
suits for  the  advantage  of  the  state.*  In  this 
we  again  recognize  the  leading  idea  of  the  Ro- 
man mind :  hardly  content  with  bringing  this 
world  into  subservience  to  the  four  magic  let- 

O 

ters,  which  had  more  harmony  for  them  than 
the  Tetractys  of  Pythagoras,  the  "  gens  togata  " 
would  fain  have  extended  the  empire  of  con- 
vention over  those  shadowy  regions,  which  are 
ever  peopled  with  different  inhabitants,  ac- 
cording to  the  different  dispositions  of  man's 
prolific  imagination.  The  second  is,  his  con- 
temptuous disbelief  of  the  doctrine,  that  for  the 
wicked  "  JEternas  poenas  in  morte  timehdum." 
There  seems,  indeed,  to  be  no  natural  connec- 
tion, but  the  contrary,  between  this  doctrine 

*  See  Somn.  Scip.,  at  the  end  of  the  "  De  Republica."  When 
they  get  to  heaven,  however,  they  are  to  be  busied  "  cognitione 

rerum  et  scientia." 

20 


306    ESSAY  ON  THE  PHILOSOPHICAL 

and  our  inherent  hope  of  immortality.  Seldom 
do  we  find  an  instance  of  such  a  belief  gain- 
ing ground,  independently  of  positive  religion, 
or  analogous  traditions.  Accustomed  to  trans- 
fer our  notions  of  earthly  legislation  to  the  idea 
of  the  Divine  character,  our  thoughts  readily 
ascribe  remedial  punishment  to  the  moral  regu- 
lation of  the  universe,  but  are  by  no  means 
equally  inclined  to  admit  the  infliction  of  abso- 
lute ruin  as  compatible  with  Supreme  Benevo- 
lence. But  it  is  not  so  easy  as  we  imagine,  to 
adjust  the  deep  of  creation  by  measurements 
of  fancy,  impelled  by  passion.  "  Omnia  exeunt 
in  mysterium,"  was  the  maxim  of  the  school- 
men. That  tremendous  mystery,  which  in- 
volves the  nature  of  evil,  may  include  the 
irreversible  doom  of  the  sinful  creature  within 
some  dreadful  cycle  of  its  ulterior  operations. 
This  view  is  indeed  gloomy,  and  such  as  the 
imagination  of  man,  for  whom  there  are  ills 
enough  at  hand  without  a  gratuitous  conjecture 
of  more,  will  not  naturally  contemplate.  Yet 
for  this  very  reason  perhaps  it  is  a  presumption 
in  favor  of  any  scheme,  pretending  to  revelation, 
that  it  contains  this  awful  doctrine. 

It  does  not  appear  that  Cicero  ascribed  any 


WRITINGS  OF  CICERO.  307 

proper  immateriality  to  the  immortal  essence 
of  thought.  Distinct  indeed  from  the  concre- 
tions of  earthly  elements,  but  endued  with  ex- 
tension, and  apparently  with  palpability,  it  had 
no  right  from  the  character  of  its  substance  to 
infinity  of  duration. 

.  "  As  to  Physics,"  says  Middleton,  "  Cicero 
seems  to  have  had  the  same  notion  with  Socra- 
tes, that  a  minute  and  particular  attention  to  it, 
and  the  making  it  the  sole  end  and  object  of 
our  inquiries,  was  a  study  rather  curious  than 
profitable,  and  contributing  but  little  to  the  im- 
provement of  human  life.  For  though  he  was 
perfectly  acquainted  with  the  various  systems 
of  all  the  Philosophers  of  any  name,  from  the 
earliest  antiquity,  and  has  explained  them  all 
in  his  works,  yet  he  did  not  think  it  worth 
while  either  to  form  any  distinct  opinions  of  his 
own,  or  at  least  to  declare  them." 

From  the  brief  and  imperfect  survey  we  have 
now  taken  of  these  philosophical  works,  some 
general  notion  may  be  formed  of  the  rank 
which  Cicero  is  entitled  to  occupy  among  the 
benefactors  of  mankind,  and  the  services  he 
has  rendered  in  that  great  controversy  between 
light  and  darkness,  the  issues  of  which  are 


308     ESSAY  ON  THE  PHILOSOPHICAL' 

deeply  interesting  to  us  all.  We  have  ob- 
served that  he  writes  under  the  influence  of 
those  national  predilections,  never  absent  from 
the  literature  of  Rome,  and  compressing  the 
individual  genius  of  her  children  within  limits 
required  for  her  attaining  and  preserving  a 
complete  dominion  over  the  manners  of  many 
generations.  He  obeyed  this  influence,  and  by 
obeying,  became  a  principal  instrument  of  its 
extension.  We  have  found  him  averse  to  orio;- 

O 

inal  investigation,  but  studious  of  comparison, 
and  more  careful  to  describe  historically  the 
thoughts  that  had  hitherto  agitated  the  minds 
of  men,  and  to  transmit  them  in  connected  for- 
mulas to  posterity,  than  to  throw  off  the  weight 
of  example,  and  try  what  results  his  individual 
intellect  might  arrive  at  by  a  fresh  examination 
of  particulars.  It  is  as  true  perhaps  as  an 
epigrammatic  expression  well  can  be,  that  the 
Romans  stand  to  their  Grecian  predecessors  in 
the  relation  of  actors  to  dramatic  poets ;  and 
Cicero  may  be  considered  as  the  prompter,  sup- 
plying them  with  those  thoughts  which  it  was 
their  business  to  embody  in  representation.  We 
have  seen  how  his  rhetorical  habits  gave  a  turn 
to  every  exertion  of  his  mind,  and  while  we  ad- 


WRITINGS  OF  CICERO.  309 

mire  the  acute  sagacity  with  which  all  varieties 
of  opinion  are  subjected  in  turn  to  the  elegance 
and  freedom  of  liberal  discussion,  we  perceive 
not  a  few  traces  of  that  injustice,  often  latent 
in  designed  impartiality,  and  that  incapacity  for 
the  due  appreciation  of  truth,  which  sometimes 
lurks  in  the  apparent  candor  and  good  faith  of 
an  eclectic  disposition.  His  honesty  of  inten- 
tion, and  extensive  observation  of  the  vicissi- 
tudes in  human  society,  with  the  prominent 
causes  on  which  they  depend,  have  given  to 
his  ethical  compositions  a  value  and  effect, 
which  the  reasons  already  enumerated  will  not 
permit  us  to  ascribe  to  the  greater  portion  of 
his  abstract  inquiries.  But  even  these,  al- 
though they  abound  with  maxims  of  general 
use  and  importance  for  the  regulation  of  the 
habits,  and  for  the  conservation  of  social  order, 
were  shown  to  be  deficient  in  vitality,  because 
pervaded  with  no  principle  of  permanent  en- 
thusiasm, sufficient  at  once  to  sanction  the  mor- 
al law,  and  to  supply  the  strongest  of  human 
motives  to  its  fulfilment.  Nothing  but  positive 
religion  can  properly  furnish  this  principle,  yet 
the  defect  at  least  was  perceived,  and  the  rem- 
edy sought  with  earnestness,  by  the  great  dis- 


310      ESSAY  ON  THE  PHILOSOPHICAL 

ciple  of  Socratic  wisdom.  In  the  absence  of 
this  requisite,  Cicero  endeavored  to  found  his 
system  of  morality  on  certain  metaphysical  po- 
sitions, which  he  collected  from  the  works  of 
others,  but  which  not  only  were  erroneous,  or 
insufficient  of  themselves,  but  were  by  him  of- 
ten misunderstood  and  misrepresented.  Those 
primary  truths  of  Theology,  which  acquire  a 
natural  hold  on  a  cultivated  understanding,  and 
suit  the  course  of  our  common  sentiments, 
without  awakening  those  more  complicated 
forces  of  emotion,  which  can  only  be  set  in 
action  by  a  spiritual  faith  —  the  doctrines,  for 
example,  of  Divine  existence  and  attributes, 
and  of  a  future  state,  were  inculcated,  we  have 
seen,  generally  with  warmth,  and  always  with 
pleasure.  But  even  here  the  Academy  vindi- 
cated her  rights  ;  and  the  mind  of  our  philoso- 
pher was  of  that  sort  which  cannot  be  satisfied 
without  some  belief  in  several  things,  or  with 
much  belief  in  any. 

Such  then,  it  has  appeared,  was  the  philo- 
sophical temper  of  Cicero ;  such  the  opinions 
which  arose  from  its  direction,  and  have  exer- 
cised so  remarkable  an  authority  over  the  lives 
of  many  men,  and  the  literature  of  many  periods. 


WRITINGS  OF  CICERO.  311 

Subject,  like  all  human  reputations,  to  a  flux 
and  reflux  of  public  esteem,  at  some  epochs  he 
has  been  the  chosen  instructor  of  youth,  and 
the  favorite  of  studious  age ;  *  at  others  he  has 
seemed  either  above  or  below  the  level  of  gen- 
eral feeling,  and  has  encountered  comparative 
neglect.  But  these  fluctuations  have  never 
materially  altered  the  surface,  whether  they 
came  to  elevate,  or  to  depress.  General  knowl- 
edge, clearness  of  expression,  a  polished  style, 
and  that  indefinable  pliancy  to  the  consent  of 
numbers,  which  is  sometimes  called  tact,  some- 
times common  sense,  according  to  the  greater 
or  less  particularity  of  the  occasion ;  these  will 
always  be  passports  to  public  approbation,  be- 
cause they  are  qualities  which  may  be  easily 
appreciated  by  the  great  mass  of  educated  so- 
ciety. It  is  impossible  to  deny  that  these  are 
possessed  by  Cicero  in  an  eminent  degree.  In 
reading  him  we  never  lose  sight  of  the  orator, 

*  He  was  very  popular  with  the  early  Fathers.  Jerome's  zeal, 
it  is  well  known,  brought  him  into  suffering.  Augustin,  whose 
books  of  anathema  against  doubters  and  Academics  amply  se- 
cured his  person  from  angelic  visitation,  speaks  of  Cicero  in 
terms  of  reverence,  even  while  he  rejects  his  authority,  and  plain- 
ly signifies  that  this  rejection  was  considered  a  philosophical 
heresy. 


312     ESSAY  ON  THE  PHILOSOPHICAL 

the  statesman,  the  man  of  the  world,  and  what 
diminishes  his  importance  to  lovers  of  higher 
truth,  than  he  could  teach,  —  truth  absolute, 
single  and  severe,  dwelling  apart  from  worldly 
things  and  men,  and  requiring  to  be  spiritually 
discerned,  because  it  is  spiritual,  —  is  precisely 
that  circumstance  which  secures  his  favor  with 
the  majority.  But  whenever  there  occurs  any 
great  shock  of  European  opinion,  any  revulsion 
of  ancient  creeds  and  settled  habits  of  assent, 
the  consequence  of  long  prevalent  immorality 
and  a  general  indifference  to  religion,  an  era 
of  reaction  is  likely  to  follow,  in  which  much 
intense  feeling  will  quicken  the  lifeblood  of 
society,  and  much  will  be  counterfeited  that 
never  was  felt.  Without  any  purpose  of  im- 
posture, men  will  deceive  themselves  and  others, 
and  while  they  fondly  dream  that  they  are  ele- 
vated above  the  multitude  by  the  loftiness  of 
their  views  and  the  originality  of  their  impulses, 
they  are  often  only  inhaling  the  dregs  of  an  ep- 
idemic passion  for  excitement ;  and  some  per- 
haps may  be  lulled  by  self-love  in  this  singularly 
illusive  dream,  until  they  are  forcibly  awakened 
by  the  pangs  of  a  lacerated  conscience,  and  the 
failings  of  an  impaired  understanding.  Such  an 


WRITINGS   OF  CICERO.  313 

era,  if  I  mistake  not,  is  that  in  which  we  live  j 
and  it  is  not  at  epochs  of  this  description,  when 
men  are  least  tolerant  of  labor,  and  most  am- 
bitious of  the  results  to  which  labor  conducts ; 
when  the  imagination  craves  a  constant  stimulus 
with  a  morbid  appetite,  sometimes  leading  to 
delirium ;  when  the  prurient  desire  for  novel- 
ties, arranged  in  system,  is  mistaken  for  the 
love  of  truth ;  and,  because  pleasure  is  the  end 
of  poetry,  it  is  supposed  indifferent  what  kind 
of  pleasure  a  poem  confers ;  it  is  not  now,  and 
in  times  like  the  present,  that  Cicero,  the  sedate, 
the  patient,  the  practical,  will  retain  his  influ- 
ence over  the  caprices  of  literary  fashion.*  Al- 
ready he  is  superseded  in  our  public  schools,  and 
I  might  add,  were  it  not  for  the  circumstances 
in  which  I  am  now  writing,  forgotten  at  our 
Universities.  The  language  of  literature  no 
longer  bespeaks  the  study  of  those  golden 
periods,  which  charmed  the  solitude  of  Pe- 

*  A  late  writer,  who  aspired  to  the  honor  of  reviving  the  Acad- 
emic system  among  the  moderns,  as  Gassendi  revived  the  Epicu- 
rean, has  left  us  an  elegant,  though  partial  estimate  of  Cicero's 
philosophical  merits.  —  Drummond's  Academical  Questions,  p.  318. 
Another  exception  will  be  found  in  an  ingenious  living  author, 
who  goes  the  strange  length  of  setting  Cicero  above  Bacon.  —  See 
Lander's  Imaginary  Conversations. 


314      ESSAY  ON  THE  PHILOSOPHICAL 

trarch,  and  enriched  the  conversation  of  Eras- 
mus. Undoubtedly  the  classical  Latin,  indebt- 
ed to  the  interest  taken  in  Cicero's  writings  for 
some  of  the  concern  that  preserved  its  existence 
in  times  of  profound  ignorance,  returned  in 
some  degree  the  benefit  at  that  brilliant  period 
of  supremacy,  which  it  enjoyed  between  the  re- 
vival of  learning  and  the  prevalence  of  modern 
tongues:  these,  however,  having  gained  ground 
for  some  time  by  hardly  sensible  gradations,  now 
openly  threaten  to  occupy  the  most  remote  and 
sacred  corners  of  critical  erudition.  When  it 
was  absolutely  necessary  to  converse  and  write 
in  the  language  of  the  dead,  it  was  natural  to 
turn  over  his  pages  "  nocturn&  manu  et  diurnS," 
that  so  the  student  might  become  imbued  with 
his  sentiments,  and  easily  adhere  to  his  expres- 
sions. How  far  the  fame  of  Cicero  is  indepen- 
dent of  these  considerations  will  be  easily  ascer- 
tained by  our  posterity,  but  must  be  a  perplexing 
question  for  ourselves.  I  do  not  think  it  probable 
that  the  generations  to  come,  however  different 
may  be  their  ruling  impulse  from  that  which  con- 
stitutes the  characteristic  virtues  and  vices  of 
the  present  age,  will  restore  either  the  philo- 
sophical works  of  Cicero,  or  that  literature  whose 


WRITINGS   OF  CICERO.  315 

spirit  they  express,  to  the  immense  popularity 
they  once  enjoyed.  Some  books,  like  individ- 
uals and  nations,  have  their  appointed  seasons 
of  decline  and  extinction.  It  is  not  in  the  na- 
ture of  things,  that  books  consisting  entirely  of 
relative  opinion,  or  which  present  society  under 
a  merely  conventional  aspect,  should  retain  an 
ascendency  over  public  opinion  when  the  fea- 
tures of  society  are  no  longer  in  any  respect 
similar.  But  in  compositions,  of  which  pure 
genius  claims  the  largest  share,  these  accidents 
of  place  and  time  are  preserved,  as  the  straws  in 
amber ;  nor  need  we  apprehend  that  any  lapse 
of  generations,  or  augmentation  of  knowledge, 
wall  consign  wrorks,  like  these  wre  have  been 

O  7 

considering,  to  the  shelf  of  the  commonly 
learned,  or  the  study  of  the  inquisitive  anti- 
quarian. 


REMARKS 

ON 

PROFESSOR  ROSSETTI'S 

•  DISQUISIZIOKI  SULLO  SPIRITO  ANTIPAPALE." 


THESE  remarks  were  originally  intended  to  appear  in  one  of 
the  periodical  publications.  Accidental  circumstances  having 
prevented  their  appearance,  in  the  form  at  least  and  at  the  time 
desired  by  the  author,  he  has  been  induced  to  publish  them  in 
a  separate  shape;  partly  by  the  wish  he  feels  to  contribute  his 
mite  towards  bringing  into  notice  a  work  which,  if  it  had  been 
written  in  English,  would  have  made,  probably,  a  great  sensa- 
tion; partly  because  he  is  desirous  of  entering  his  protest  against 
those  novel  opinions  of  Professor  Rossetti,  which  he  believes  to 
be  alike  contrary  to  sound  philosophy  and  to  the  records  of 
history.  With  regard  to  any  sentiments  of  his  own,  contained  in 
the  following  pages,  which  ma}'  be  thought  liable  to  a. similar 
charge  of  paradox,  he  will  be  content  to  shelter  himself  under  the 
language  of  Burke,  confessing  that  they  are  not  calculated  "  to  abide 
the  test  of  a  captious  controversy  but  of  a  sober  and  even  forgiv- 
ing examination ;  that  they  are  not  armed  at  all  points  for  battle, 
but  dressed  to  visit  those  who  are  willing  to  give  a  peaceful  en- 
trance to  truth." 


REMARKS 


PROFESSOR  ROSSETTFS   "  DISQUISEIONI  SULLO  SPIRITO  ANTI- 
PAPALE." 


"  Maximum  et  velut  radicale  discrimen  est  ingeniorum,  quod  alia 
ingenia  sint  fortiora  ad  notandas  rerum  differentias,  alia  ad  notandas 
rerum  similitudines.  Ingenia  enim  constantia  et  acuta  figere  con- 
templationes  et  morari  et  haerere  in  omni  subtilitate  differentiarum 
possunt.  Ingenia  autem  sublimia  et  discursiva  etiam  tenuissimas 
et  catholicas  rerum  siniilitudines  et  cognoscunt  et  componunt. 
Utruraque  autem  ingenium  facile  labitur  in  excessum,  prensando 
aut  gradus  rerum  aut  umbras." — BACON  DE  AUGM.  Scr. 

Ix  these  words,  not  unworthy  the  calm  wis- 
dom of  Bacon,  we  have  the  large  map  of  hu- 
man understanding  unrolled  before  us,  divided 
into  two  hemispheres,  of  which  it  would  be  dif- 
ficult to  name  the  most  extensive,  or  the  most 
important  to  general  happiness.  We  could  as 
ill  spare  the  mighty  poets,  artists,  and  religious 
philosophers  of  the  second  division,  as  the  pa- 
tient thinkers,  the  accomplished  dialecticians, 


320    PROF.  ROSSETTFS  "  DlSQUISlZrONl 

and  the  great  body  of  practical  men,  who 
must  be  classed  under  the  former.  If,  on  the 
one  hand,  we  are  by  nature  /xepoTrcs  avOpwrot, 
dividers  of  words,  and  the  thoughts  that  give 
rise  to  words,  we  are  no  less  creatures  depend- 
ent on  the  imagination,  with  all  its  wonderful 
powers  of  associating,  blending,  and  regenerat- 
ing, for  the  conduct  of  our  daily  life,  and  the 
maintenance  of  our  most  indispensable  feel- 
ings. Between  the  two  classes  of  individual 
character,  distinguished  by  their  larger  respec- 
tive shares  of  these  opposite  faculties,  there 
must  always  be  more  or  less  of  contest  and 
misunderstanding,  which,  however,  only  serves, 
by  sharpening  the  activity  of  both  parties,  to 
produce  an  ultimate  equilibrium  ;  and  trim- 
ming, so  to  speak,  the  vessel  of  human  intel- 
lect, promotes  the  great  cause  of  social  progres- 
sion. Few  persons,  perhaps,  are  indisposed  to 
make  this  allowance,  so  far  as  regards  the 
broader  distinctions,  such,  for  instance,  as  di- 
vide a  Newton  from  a  Shakspeare.  The  two 
peaks  of  Parnassus  are  so  clearly  separate,  that 
we  run  little  danger  of  confounding  them.  But 
there  is  a  doubtful  piece  of  ground  where  the 
cleft  begins  ;  a  region  of  intellectual  exertion  in 


SULLO   SPIRITO  ANTIPAPALE."        321 

which  the  two  opposite  qualities  are  both  called 
into  play,  and  where  there  is  consequently  the 
greatest  risk  of  their  being  confused.  Unfor- 
tunately, too,  this  debatable  land  is  of  the  most 
direct  importance  to  our  welfare  ;  for  within  it 
are  comprised  those  inquiries  which  regard  our 
moral  and  intellectual  frame,  and  which  aspire 
to  arrange  the  chaos  of  motives  and  actions  in 
some  intelligible  order  of  cause  and  effect.  The 
history  of  philosophical  criticism,  both  as  applied 
to  the  annals  of  events,  and  as  busied  in  abstract 
speculations,  is  for  the  most  part  a  record  of 
noble  errors,  arising  from  the  abuse  of  that 
principle  which  leads  us  to  combine  things  by 
resemblances.  Yet  it  may  be  doubted,  whether 
these  errors  have  not  done  as  much  for  the  dis- 
covery of  truth,  as  the  more  accurate  inquiries 
of  the  philosophers  who  detected  them.  En- 
thusiastic feeling  is  the  great  spring  of  intel- 
lectual activity ;  but  none  are  animated  by  this 
enthusiasm  without  some  apparent  light  to  their 
thoughts,  some  idea  that  possesses  them,  some 
theory,  in  short,  or  hypothesis,  which  interests 
their  hopes,  and  stimulates  their  researches  by 
a  stronger  allurement  than  the  unaided  loveli- 
ness of  truth.  These  leading  ideas  are  rarely 
21 


322     PROF.   ROSSETTfS  "  DISQU1SIZIONI 

accordant  with  reality ;  but  in  the  pursuit  of 
them  lights  are  struck  out,  which  fall  happily 
on  the  minds  of  other  men,  and  may  ultimately 
prove  of  great  service  to  the  world.  Even 
when,  as  in  some  fortunate  examples,  the  idea, 
which  is  fearlessly  followed  through  labor  and 
trial,  is  found  to  correspond  with  the  actual  re- 
lations of  nature,  we  know  not  how  much  is 
owing  to  what  may  be  termed  a  contagion  of 
genius  from  other  minds,  less  favored  in  attain- 
ment, but  not  less  ardent  in  pursuit.*  Genius, 

*  This  is  less  true,  or  at  least  less  obvious  in  science,  where 
more  depends  on  pure  intellect.  When  we  consider  Newton  mis- 
understood and  misrepresented  by  Hooke  and  Huyghens,  who  set 
their  own  unproved  hypotheses,  concerning  the  nature  of  light,  on 
a  level  with  his  sublime  observations  of  actual  properties,  we  are 
disposed  to  think  of  his  genius  as  moving  in  a  different  plane,  and 
meeting  theirs  only  where  it  intersects-  Yet  how  various  must 
have  been  the  multiplicity  of  impressions,  which  made  Newton  a 
mathematician,  a  patient  thinker,  a  discoverer!  How  many  of 
these  may  have  been  owing  to  Hooke  and  Huyghens  themselves ! 
Had  they,  had  Kepler,  and  Descartes,  never  worshipped  idols  with 
glorious  devotion,  the  authors  of  the  Principia  and  the  Me"canique 
Celeste  might  never  have  led  the  way  to  the  altars  of  true  Science. 
The  work  of  intellect  is  posterior  to  the  work  of  feeling.  The  lat- 
ter lies  at  the  foundation  of  the  Man ;  it  is  his  proper  self,  the  pe- 
culiar thing  that  characterizes  him  as  an  individual.  No  two  men 
are  alike  in  feeling,  but  conceptions  of  the  understanding,  when 
distinct,  are  precisely  similar  in  all.  The  ascertained  relations  of 
truths  are  the  common  property  of  the  race.  This  fact  it  is,  which 


SULLO   SPIRIT 0  ANTIPAPALE."        323 

indeed,  is  the  child  of  Heaven,  but  a  human 
child  ;  and  innumerable  circumstantial  causes 
are  operative  on  its  nature  and  development. 
It  is  the  consciousness  of  intellectual  power, 
not  the  possession  of  right  opinions,  which  agi- 
tates beneficially  the  spirit  of  a  nation,  and  pre- 
pares it  for  intellectual  discovery.  Feeling  is 
the  prime  agent  in  this,  as  in  other  human  oper- 
ations ;  and  feeling  is  more  susceptible  of  being 
moulded  by  error  than  by  truth,  because  the 
false  appearances  of  things  »are  numberless, 
while  of  the  true  we  know  little  even  at  pres- 
ent, and  that  little  continually  diminishes  as  we 
go  backward  through  the  field  of  history.  We 
would  not  be  understood  as  encouraging  a  care- 
less sentiment  respecting  truth,  or  as  dissuading 
inquiries  from  the  only  sound  method  of  phil- 
osophizing, which  implies  a  constant  distrust  of 
hypothesis,  and  an  incessant  appeal  to  the  rec- 
ords of  experience.  Hypothesis,  we  agree  with  a 

gave  rise  to  those  systems  of  semi-platonic  philosophy  which  repre- 
sented Eeason  as  impersonal,  and  existing  only  as  a  divine  univer- 
sal medium  in  and  around  our  individual  minds.  Such  was  the 
doctrine  of  many  of  the  Old  Fathers,  in  particular  of  Justin  Mar- 
tyr, and  Augustin;  it  was  revived  with  considerable  extensions  by 
Malebranche;  by  his  English  disciple,  Norris;  and  recently,  in  its 
original  shape,  by  Mr.  Coleridge. 


324    PROF.  ROSSETTFS  "  DISQU1SIZIONI 

late  eminent  writer,  should  be  employed  only 
as  a  reason  for  trying  one  experiment  sooner 
than  another.  But  although  it  would  be  worse 
than  folly  to  recommend  darkness  in  preference 
to  light,  it  is  not  foolish  to  remind  men  that 
Nature  may  have  made  this  darkness  subser- 
vient to  the  better  distribution  of  light  itself. 
Man,  indeed,  must  sternly  turn  from  seduc- 
tive fancies,  when  he  seeks  sincerely  for  truths. 
His  sublime  course  is  straightforward  forever. 
But  Nature  cooperates  with  him  in  secret,  and 
by  a  magical  alchemy,  which  it  is  ours  to  rev- 
erence, not  to  imitate,  can  transform  those  very- 
errors,  against  the  intention  of  their  unconscious 
victims,  into  new  disclosures  and  enlargements 
of  knowledge. 

The  author  of  the  very  ingenious  and  interest- 
ing work  before  us,  stands  in  need  of  all  the 
indulgence,  as  he  deserves  all  the  censure  which 
we  have  just  expressed  towards  the  tribe  of  per- 
tinacious theorists.  He  is  one  of  the  boldest  and 
one  of  the  cleverest  among  them.  His  style  is 
lively,  and  often  rises  to  eloquence,  while  the 
nature  of  his  hypothesis  lends  to  historical  details 
all  the  wildness  and  novelty  of  romance.  He 
has  amassed  considerable  information  on  the  lim- 


SULLO   SPIRITO  ANTIPAPALE."      325 

ited  range  of  subjects  which  regard  his  immedi- 
ate pursuit  ;  but  he  appears  to  want  extensive 
reading,*  and  that  philosophical  discrimination 

*  We  would  recommend  him  to  beware  how  he  meddles  with 
ancient  history.  Speaking  of  the  philosophical  doctrines  of  Pvthag- 
oras,  he  calls  them  "  dottrina,  onde  nacque  1'assurdo  Panteis- 
mo."  Whatever  may  be  the  absurdities  of  Pantheism,  they  can 
hardly  exceed  those  contained  iu  these  few  words.  Pythagoras 
was  not  inclined  to  the  Pantheistic  system,  but  that  system  is  as 
old  as  the  world.  It  was  articulated  among  the  first  stammering 
accents  of  Philosophy  in  the  oriental  birthplace  of  our  race. 
When  the  Persians,  somewhat  later,  began  to  indulge  in  high 
speculations,  they  invented  a  different  scheme,  that  of  emanation, 
to  which  the  tenets  of  Pythagoras  probably  bore  a  close  affinity. 
From  him  it  may  have  passed  into  the  hands  of  Plato.  The  Sto- 
ics adopted  similar  views.  The  later  Platonisfs  pursued  the  sys- 
tem of  emanation  into  many  fanciful,  but  coherent  ramifications. 
The  Eleatic  school,  contemporary  with  Pythagoras,  but  unconnect- 
ed with  him,  seem  to  have  been  the  first  Pantheists  of  the  west. 
This  is  disputed  by  some  modern  critics,  but  the  arguments  of 
Xenophanes  concerning  the  homogeneity  of  "substances  appear  as 
strictly  Pantheistic  as  any  proposition  in  the  Ethics  of  Spinosa. 
All  is  necessarily  one,  he  says ;  for  the  Infinite  can  produce  nothing 
homogeneous,  since  two  infinites  are  an  absurdity :  nor  yet  any- 
thing heterogeneous,  because  an  effect  can  contain  nothing  which  is 
not  involved  in  its  cause ;  therefore,  whatever  in  the  new  substance 
differed  from  the  old,  could  not  be  produced  by  it,  but  must  come 
of  nothing,  which  is  impossible.  Afterwards,  by  a  more  com- 
pressed argument,  he  contends  that  it  is  impossible,  vi  termini,  for 
Infinity  to  set  anything  beyond  itself.  It  is  curious  that  the  acute 
deductions  of  Xenophanes  from  a  theory  of  Causation,  generally 
received  until  the  time  of  Hume,  should  never  have  suggested 


326    PROF.  ROSSETTl'S  « D1SQUISIZIONI 

which  might  be  expected  to  arise  from  it.  Nev- 
er was  a  more  characteristic  specimen  of  the 
second  class  of  thinkers,  designated  above  in  the 
words  of  Bacon.  He  cares  for  nothing  but 
resemblances,  finds  them  in  every  hole  and  cor- 
ner,* and  takes  them  on  trust  when  he  cannot 

themselves  to  those  subtle  thinkers,  among  the  Schoolmen  and 
their  successors,  who  strove  to  erect  a  demonstration  of  Theism  on 
the  idea  of  Cause.  They  could  hardly,  one  would  imagine,  avoid 
perceiving  the  fragility  of  their  distinction  between  a  thing  con- 
tained formally,  and  one  contained  eminently.  Yet  upon  the 
presumed  force  of  that  distinction  rest  not  only  the  Cartesian  argu- 
ments, but  the  celebrated  chapter  of  Locke,  "  on  our  demonstrative 
knowledge  of  the  existence  of  God."  The  school  of  Pythagoras,  if 
we  may  trust  Mr.  Coleridge's  account,  ("Aids  to  Reflection,"  p.  170 
in  not.)  wished  to  guard  against  the  errors  of  Pantheism  by  a 
strange  application  of  mathematical  phraseology,  representing  the 
Universe  as  a  geometric  line,  not  produced  from  a  point  contained 
in  it,  but  generated  by  a  Punctum  invisibile  et  presuppositum,  en- 
tirely independent  of  its  product.  It  must  be  owned,  however,  in 
the  words  of  M.  de  Gerando,  (Biog.  Univ.  art.  Pythagore,)  "II 
n'est  pas  dans  Phistoire  entiere  de  la  Philosophic  un  probleme  plus 
curieux,  plus  important,  et  en  meme  temps  plus  difficile,  que  celui 
qui  a  pour  objet  de  determiner  la  veritable  doctrine  de  Pythagore." 
*  He  cannot  even  resist  their  charms,  when  they  are  of  no  possi- 
ble service  to  his  hypothesis,  and  indeed  militate  directly  against 
it,  by  showing  how  little  trust  we  should  place  in  such  sports  of 
nature.  The  following  is  an  amusing  specimen:  "  It  was  not  ob- 
served without  wonder,  that  Landino,  who  was  learned  in  astrology, 
wrote  these  words  on  the  subject  of  the  Veltro,  (in  the  first  Canto 
of  the  Inferno.)  '  It  is  certain,  that  in  the  year  1484,  on  the  15th  day 


SULLO  SPIRITO  ANTIPAPALE."        327 

find  them.  The  most  heterogeneous  elements 
are  pressed  into  the  service  of  his  hypothesis 
with  almost  tyrannical  eagerness.  He  has  one 
way,  and  one  alone,  of  accounting  for  everything 
strange  or  unintelligible,  or  doubtful,  in  the 
whole  extent  of  history ;  nay,  for  many  things 
hitherto  thought  clear  enough,  but  not  agreeing 
with  his  fancy.  A  man  must  be  careful  indeed, 
in  whose  words  or  actions  Signor  Rossetti  would 
not  discover  something  to  help  out  his  argument. 
If  two  persons  at  opposite  ends  of  the  world  do 
but  chance  to  light  on  the  same  mode  of  expres- 

of  November,  at  13  hours  and  41  minutes,  will  be  the  conjunction 
of  Saturn  with  Jupiter  in  the  Scorpion.  This  indicates  a  change 
of  religion :  and  since  Jove  predominates,  it  will  be  a  favorable 
change.  I  have,  therefore,  a  firm  confidence  that  the  Christian 
Commonwealth  will  then  be  brought  into  an  excellent  condition 
of  discipline  and  government.'  "  The  first  edition  of  Landino's 
Commentary  has  for  its  date,  Florence,  1481,  that  is  three  years 
previous  to  the  event  prognosticated,  or,  as  he  says,  calculated  by 
him.  Well,  in  the  very  year  and  month  marked  out,  Luther  was 
born  !  not,  indeed,  on  the  25th,  but  on  the  22d  of  November.  The 
hours  and  minutes  were  not  recollected  by  his  mother.  ( See  Bayle, 
art.  Luther.)  It  is  well  known  that  Luther  called  himself  the 
scourge  of  Babylon,  sent  to  extirpate  it  from  the  world :  which  ex- 
actly corresponds  with  the  character  given  by  Dante  to  the  Veltro, 
who  is  to  prosecute  the  she-wolf.  The  passage,  in  old  editions,  is 
written  thus:  II  Uellro  verra,  &c.  How  would  the  astonishment 
of  those  who  perceived  this  prophecy  have  been  increased,  had 
they  also  observed  that  Ueltro  is  the  exact  anagram  of  Lutero. 


328    PROF.  ROSSETTPS  "  D1SQUISIZ1ONI 

sion,  our  learned  professor  calls  out,  like  honest 
Verges,  "  'Fore  God,  they  are  both  of  a  tale  !  " 
For  him  there  is  mystery  in  the  most  trivial  inci- 
dent. He  would  think,  with  Sir  Thomas  Brown, 
"  it  was  not  for  nothing  David  picked  up  five 
stones  in  the  brook."  It  seems  to  us  that  Signor 
Rossetti  would  not  be  the  worse  for  a  few  whole- 
some reflections,  which  seem  never  to  have  pre- 
sented themselves  to  his  mind,  but  which  might 
be  gained  perhaps  from  a  few  months'  study  of 
that  most  unprofitable  kind  of  production,  the 
commentaries  on  the  Apocalypse,  or  the  divinity 
of  the  Cocceian  school.  He  might  learn  among 
the  embarrassing  riches  of  interpretations,  equally 
good  in  appearance,  and  equally  erroneous  in 
fact,  that  as  all  is  not  gold  that  glitters,  so  all  is 
not  art  that  seems  so.  The  world  is  full  of  coin- 
cidences that  mean  nothing.  To  find  design  in 
everything,  is  as  great  madness  as  to  find  it  not 
at  all.  There  is  a  laughing  spirit  in  Nature 
which  seeks  perpetual  amusement  in  parodying 
her  more  serious  works,  and  in  throwing  before 
such  observers  as  Signor  Rossetti  forms  of  appar- 
ent regularity,  but  unsubstantial  as  momentary 
shapes  of  uncertain  moonlight.  Indeed  the  imi- 
tations of  life,  which  in  the  material  world  often 


SULLO   SPIR1TO  ANTIPAPALE."        329 

illude  our  senses,  may  be  considered  analogous 
to  these  chance-creations  in  the  moral  universe, 
which  spring  up  on  every  side  for  those  who  care 
to  examine  them. 

It  must  be  acknowledged,  however,  the  theoiy 
we  are  about  to  consider  has  its  brilliant  side. 
A  secret  society,  we  are  told,  whose  original  is 
lost  in  the  mysterious  twilight  of  oriental  relig- 
ions, has  continued,  from  the  earliest  historical 
point  at  which  its  workings  can  be  traced,  to  ex- 
ercise an  almost  universal  influence  on  the  con- 
dition of  the  civilized  world.  These  /AVOT^PIO, 
and  esoteric  doctrines,  which  in  Egypt,  in  Persia, 
and  even  in  Greece  and  Italy,  preserved  the 
speculations  of  the  wise  from  the  ears  and 
tongues  of  an  illiterate  multitude,  passed,  with 
slight  but  necessary  modifications,  into  the  pos- 
session of  the  early  Christian  heretics.  The 
Gnostic  schools  of  Syria  and  Egypt  transmitted 
to  their  successors,  the  Manicheans,  a  scheme  of 
discipline,  which  became  more  and  more  neces- 
sary, from  the  increased  centralization  of  power 
in  the  orthodox  prelates  of  Rome.  As  the 
usurpations  of  Popes  and  Councils  over  the  free 
consciences  of  men  became  more  glaring  and 
intolerable,  the  spirit  of  resistance,  which  dared 


330    PROF.  ROSSETTI'S  "  D1SQUIS1ZION1 

not  show  itself  in  open  rebellion,  sought  and 
cherished  a  refuge,  where  hatred  of  the  oppres- 
sors might  be  indulged  without  danger,  and  a 
pure  doctrine  might  be  orally  and  symbolically 
preserved,  until  happier  times  should  return. 
The  Pauliceans,  whose  opinions  were  for  the 
most  part  Manichean,  preceded  the  more  illus- 
trious and  more  unfortunate  Albigenses,  in  this 
mode  of  warfare  against  spiritual  as  well  as  tem- 
poral tyranny.  The  celebrated  order  of  Tem- 
plars, so  widely  diffused  throughout  Europe,  so 
considerable  by  the  rank  and  influence  of  its 
n  embers,  did  not  differ  from  the  Albigenses  in 
the  secret  object  of  their  endeavors,  or  the  more 
important  part  of  their  mysterious  rites.  From 
the  time  of  Frederick  II.,  the  Italian  rarty 
of  Ghibellines  began  to  assume  an  equal  rank 
among  these  secret  opponents  of  Roman  su- 
premacy. Whatever  might  be  the  distinctive 
characters  of  these  three  denominations,  their 
symbolical  language  was  sufficiently  in  common 
to  allow  of  uninterrupted  intercourse  and  com- 
bination. The  rise  of  a  new  literature  in  the 
eleventh  and  twelfth  centuries  afforded  them  a 
new  weapon,  far  more  terrible  than  any  they 
had  hitherto  employed,  and  capable  of  being 


SULLO   SPIRITO  ANTIPAPALE."         331 

directed  to  a  thousand  purposes  of  attack  and 
defence.  Since  that  fortunate  event,  we  are 
gravely  assured,  the  destinies  of  Europe  have 
been  in  their  hands ;  and  the  great  revolutions 
which  have  agitated  us  are  almost  entirely  due 
to  their  indefatigable  operation.  No  track  of 
literature  has  been  untrodden  by  these  masked 
assailants.  In  poetry,  in  romance,  in  history,  in 
science  ;  everywhere  *  we  find  traces  of  their 
presence.  Their  influence  in  some  shape  or  an- 
other, has  been  exerted  on  all  nations,  and,  it 
might  almost  be  said,  on  every  individual  mind. 
The  genius  of  Luther  was  no  more  than  a  pup- 
pet, infallibly  directed  by  their  invisible  agency. 
In  the  Protestant  reformation  they  attained  one 
object  only  of  their  unwearied  pursuit,  the  over- 

*  The  Alchemists  are  claimed  by  our  author.  The  philosopher's 
stone  was  not  meant  to  be  a  stone ;  and  if  any  were  fools  enough  to 
seek  it,  they  were  but  dupes  of  those,  whom  they  thought  their 
masters.  Metaphysicians  do  not  fare  much  better.  The  celebrated 
Raymond  Lulli  wrote  all  his  works  in  gergo.  The  philosopher  of 
Nola,  Giordano  Bruno,  is  ranked  with  Lulli,  on  whose  logic  he 
commented.  We  must  crave  leave  to  doubt  whether  any  secrets 
exist  in  the  writings  of  poor  Bruno,  except  such  as  are  made  so  by 
the  obscurity  of  his  metaphysical  doctrines.  Nor  does  his  fate 
seem  to  require  Rossetti's  Deus  in  machinS,  the  secret  society. 
The  author  of  "  Spaccio  della  Bestia  Trionfante  "  naturally  per- 
ished at  the  stake. 


332    PROF.  ROSSETTPS  "  DISQUISIZ10N1 

throw  of  ecclesiastical  domination.  They  re- 
laxed not  therefore  in  the  prosecution  of  their 
ulterior  aim  ;  and  in  the  revolution  of  1789  came 
the  thrilling  announcement  of  a  second,  a  more 
decisive  victory.  Still  the  earth  is  not  entirely 
free  :  priests  and  despots  still  remain  to  enervate 
and  to  destroy:  their  labors,  therefore,  are  not 
complete,  and  the  Freemasons  of  this  day,  legiti- 
mate inheritors  of  the  persecuted  Templars,  are 
still  pressing  forward  *  to  the  grand  work  of  final 

9 

regeneration. 

But,  averting  for  a  time  our  eyes  from  these 
splendid  consummations,  let  us  examine  in  detail 
the  several  methods  of  assault  by  which  a  few 

*  It  is  remarkable  how  intrepidly  the  professor  passes  over  dis- 
puted points.  To  read  him,  one  would  imagine  the  connection  of 
modern  Freemasonry  with  the  ancient  societies  was  a  fact  uni- 
versally admitted.  Yet  many  learned  persons  have  been  of  opin- 
ion that,  in  its  present  form,  or  any  nearly  resembling  it,  the 
Masonic  institution  can  be  traced  no  higher  than  the  times  of  the 
Protectorate.  The  Templars,  with  their  mysterious  Baphomet, 
are  covered  with  still  greater  obscurity.  We  know  no  historical 
grounds  for  considering  the  Albigenses  as  an  organized  society. 
Some  Shibboleths  they  probably  had;  for  the  persecuted  always 
stand  in  need  of  such  protection;  but  the  complicated  proceedings 
and  extensive  correspondencies,  ascribed  to  them  by  Rossetti, 
appear  to  exist  only  in  his  lively  imagination.  His  assertions 
respecting  the  Ghibellines  are  even  less  supported  by  historical 
authorities. 


SULLO  SPIR1TO  ANTIPAPALE."       333 

daring  politicians  got  possession  of  all  avenues  to 
the  Western  Parnassus.  Here  it  is  necessary  to 
acquaint  the  inexperienced  reader,  who  dreams 
of  nothing  less,  that,  about  the  commencement 
of  the  fourteenth  century,  occurred  a  great 
change  in  the  constitution  of  these  societies. 

O 

Up  to  that  period  the  symbolical  language  had 
been  entirely  of  an  amatory  character.  The 
love  poems  *  and  love  courts  of  Provence  and 

*  Our  author  is  perhaps  not  acquainted  with  the  Proven9al  lan- 
guage, or  he  would  hardly  have  failed  to  bring  illustrations  of  his 
theory  from  that  quarter.  Indeed  it  seems  so  indispensable  for  one 
who  seeks  to  explain  the  peculiar  characteristics  of  Italian  poetry, 
to  examine  diligently  the  early  compositions  from  which  those 
characteristics  were  unquestionably  derived,  that  we  cannot  help 
feeling  some  surprise  at  the  neglect  of  them  by  Signer  Rossetti. 
He  tells  us,  it  is  true,  that  the  "  Lives  of  the  Trovatori  "  by  Nos- 
tradamus are  written  in  gergo,  and  cites,  by  way  of  example,  the 
story  of  Pier  Vidal,  who  was  hunted  by  the  wolves  (i.  e.  according 
to  the  new  lights,  by  the  Romish  party):  but  the  poems  them- 
>;lves,  although  the  originals  of  all  the  subsequent  love  poetry, 
md.  in  particular  of  many  things  strange,  and  some  admirable,  in 
Dante  and  Petrarch,  are  never  quoted.  Yet  in  these  he  would 
have  found  at  least  as  many  phrases  and  idioms,  which,  by  skilful 
adaptation,  might  have  startled  the  reader  into  a  momentary  belief 
in  his  hypothesis.  The  Albate,  a  class  of  poems,  in  which  the 
word  "alba"  recurs  at  the  close  of  every  stanza,  would  doubtless 
have  suggested  to  him  the  name  and  fortunes  of  the  Albigenses. 
We  recommend  to  his  notice  the  Albata  of  Guillaume  d'Altopol, 
addressed  to  the  Virgin,  "  Esperansa  de  totz  ferms  esperans,"  &c., 
and  that  very  beautiful  one  of  Giraud  de  Bornel,  in  which  the 


334   PROF.  ROSSETTl'S  "DISQUIS1Z10NI 

Toulouse,  were  vehicles  of  political  discussion, 
of  active  conspiracy,  of  heretical  opinion.      An 

burden  runs,  "  E  ades  sera  1'Alba."  He  may  make  a  good  specu- 
lation also  in  a  singular  kind  of  composition  (said  to  have  been  in- 
vented by  Rambaud  d' Orange,  who  is  mentioned  by  Petrarch  in 
the  Fourth  Capitolo  of  the  Trionfo  d'Amore),  which  consists  in 
verses  overlaid  with  a  running  commentary  in  prose  or  verse,  pro- 
fessing to  explain,  but  often  obscuring  their  text.  It  is  probable 
that  the  Reggimenti  delle  Donne  of  Barberini,  and  the  Tesoretto  of 
Latini,  are  composed  in  imitation  of  these.  The  following  speci- 
men, in  which  the  line  is  by  one  poet,  and  the  paraphrase  or  inter- 
pretation by  another,  will  please  Signor  Rossetti :  and  it  must  be 
owned  they  are  obscure  enough  to  be  of  service  to  his  theory. 
"  E  poia  i  horn  per  catre  gras  mont  les."  In  plain  English,  "  And 
man  ascends  by  four  very  slow  steps."  The  comment,  which  is  by 
Giraud  Riquier,  who  lived  towards  the  end  of  the  thirteenth  cen- 
turjr,  runs  thus : 

"  Ver  dis:  segon  que  m'pes, 
E  que  truep  cossiran, 
Li  gra  son  benestan : 
Lo  premier  es  ONKARS, 
E'l  segons  es  SELARS, 
E'l  ters  es  GEN  SKRVIRS, 
E'l  quartz  es  BON  SUFRIRS. 
E  cascus  es  mot  lens, 
Tal  qu'el  pueya  greumens 
Hon  ses  elenegar." 

"He  says  truth;  as  I  think,  ||  and  find,  considering,  ||  the  steps 
are  well  suited.  ||  The  first  is,  To  honor;  ||  and  the  second,  To 
conceal ;  ||  and  the  third,  To  do  gentle  service ;  ||  and  the  fourth, 
To  suffer  well.  ||  And  each  is  very  slow,  ||  so  that  scarcely  mounts 
it  ||  a  man  without  panting."  The  quaint  style  in  which  the  Tro- 


SULLO  SPIRIT 0  ANTIPAPALE."       335 
ingenious  chain  of  antitheses,  so  contrived  as  to 

O 

suggest,  in  expressions  apparently  the  most  un- 

vatori  generally  designate  their  mistresses,  sometimes  employing 
abstract  terms  instead  of  names,  as  Lov  Bel  Diport,  Mon  Plus 
Leial,  Mon  Cortes,  sometimes  professing  to  name  them  only  by 
description,  will  appear  to  the  Professor  a  strong  argument  for  the 
unreality  of  those  ladies.  Take,  for  example,  the  poem  of  Arnaud 
de  Marveil,  of  which  the  following  is  an  inadequate  imitation: 

"  Lady,  whose  eyes  are  like  the  stars  of  heaven, 

Out  of  pure  dark  sending  a  glorious  light: 
Lady,  whose  cheek  in  dainty  blushes  bright 

Vies  with  the  roseate  crown  to  angels  given  : 
Lady,  whose  form  more  trances  human  sight, 

Than  all  who  erst  for  beauty's  palm  have  striven: 
Lady,  whose  mind  would  charm  the  unforgiven, 

And  make  them  worship  in  a  brief  delight: 
I  will  not  name  thee;  happy  is  my  lot, 

That,  tho'  I  speak  the  simple  truth  of  thee, 

The  curious  world  may  read,  and  know  thee  not; 
For  now  all  foolish  lovers'  lays  are  such, 

And  thy  due  praise  is  every  woman's  fee: 
Else  were  it  naming  thee  to  say  so  much." 

We  are,  however,  decidedly  of  opinion,  that,  although  the  antith- 
eses and  studied  obscurities,  which  supply  to  Rossetti's  theory 
its  only  color  of  plausibility,  are  more  abundant  in  these  poems 
than  in  the  more  chaste  and  classical  school  which  succeeded  them, 
he  would  find  even  greater  difficulty  to  establish  his  hypothesis 
upon  them  with  any  tolerable  security.  The  facts  with  which  he 
would  have  to  deal  are  too  stubborn,  too  historical.  The  Cours 
d' Amour  were  no  secret  meetings,  but  assemblies  "  frequent  and 
full,"  at  which  princely  ladies  presided,  deliberated,  and  resolved. 
What  secret  treason  was  intended  by  the  Countess  de  Champagne, 


33^    PROF.  ROSSETTPS  " DISQUISIZIONI 

meaning,  secrets  of  profound  signification,  or  de- 
nunciations of  bitter  animosity,  served  to  unite 
men  of  genius,  however  remote  from  each  other, 
in  the  one  great  cause  of  a  veiled,  but  terri- 
ble Liberty.  When  poetry,  after  its  decline  in 
Southern  France,  began  to  revive  under  brighter 
auspices  in  Italy,  the  same  system  was  for  some 
time  continued.  Cino  da  Pistoia,  Cecco  Ascolan, 
both  the  Guides,  and  other  foster-fathers  of  the 
new  language,*  rhymed  after  the  fashion  of  their 

daughter  of  Louis  le  Jeune,  when  she  made  her  memorable  decis- 
ion, "  En  amour  tout  est  grace ;  en  manage  tout  est  necessity :  par 
consequent  1' Amour  ne  peut  exister  entre  gens  maries!"  Here 
we  have  infidelity  preached  to  be  sure,  but  in  rather  a  different 
sense  from  that  which  the  Professor  is  hunting  for,  and  one  less 
likely  to  be  offensive  to  the  gay  rulers  of  that  time.  At  least  we 
may  judge  so  from  the  answer  of  the  Queen,  when  the  above  de- 
cision was  appealed  against  —  "A  Dieu  ne  plaise,  que  nous  soyons 
assez  os4es  pour  contredire  les  arrets  de  la  Contesse  de  Cham- 
pagne?" History  assures  us,  that  the  loves  of  the  Troubadours 
were  real  and  natural.  They  largely  cultivated  the  practice  as 
well  as  the  theory  of  gallantry.  We  should  like  to  have  heard 
their  hearty  laughter  at  an  erudite  professor,  who  should  have 
attempted,  in  their  presence,  to  argue  away  the  fair  forms,  which 
they  wooed  and  often  won,  into  shadows  and  types,  and  mere  sub- 
jects of  intellectual  enjoyment. 

*  It  is  among  these  writers  that  the  new  theory  finds  its  best 
portion  of  materials.  Their  infinite  obscurity,  perhaps  in  some 
measure  owing  to  a  corrupt  text,  gives  ample  scope  for  arbitrary 
constructions.  The  lover  of  poetry  will  not  here  lose  by  adopting 
Signor  Rossetti's  interpretations,  as  he  does  in  the  case  of  better 


SULLO   SPIR1TO  ANTIPAPALE."       337 

Provengal  predecessors,  and  expounded  their  po- 
litical theories  in  the  deceitful  form  of  sonnets 
and  canzones.  It  seems,  however,  that  old 
Death,  as  they  piously  denominated  the  Holy 
See,  got  notice  of  these  amorous  pasquinades,  , 
and  would  have  speedily  succeeded  in  extermi- 
nating the  obnoxious  lovers,  had  it  not  been  for 
a  master-stroke  of  policy  on  their  part.  What 
does  the  reader  imagine?  They  threw  away 
their  love-tales,  and  took  up  missals ;  went  duly 
to  matins,  instead  of  "  brushing  their  hats  o' 
mornings ;  "  in  short,  exchanged  the  symbols 
hitherto  in  use  for  others  of  a  similar  antithetical 
character,  but  grounded  on  the  venerable  mys- 
teries of  Catholic  religion.  This  change  was 
effected  by  Dante.  We  have  the  announcement 
of  it  in  the  "  Vita  Nuova,"  the  result  in  the 
"  Divina  Commedia,"  the  commentary,  for  those 

writers.  Some  meaning  is  preferable  to  none.  It  is  curious  that 
Ginguene'  has  said,  as  if  by  anticipation  of  Rossetti,  "  1'on  pour- 
rait  en  quelque  sorte  les  croire  tous  amoureux  du  meme  objet, 
puisqu'  aucun  d'enx  ne  dit  le  nom  de  sa  maitresse,  aucun  ne  la 
point  sous  des  traits  sensibles."  That  critic  abandons  in  despair 
some  passages  of  Cecco  and  Cino,  which  brighten  up  under  the 
new  lights  sufficiently  well.  See  the  sonnets  "  Muoviti,  Pietate,  e 
va  incarnate,"  &c.  "  Deb,  com  sarebbe  dolce  corapagnia,"  &c., 
and  some  others  in  the  collection  of  Poeti  Antichi,  published  by 
Allacci. 


PROF.  ROSSETTI'S  "  D1SQU1S1ZIONI 

who  have  ears  to  hear,  in  the  "  Convito,' '  the 
"  De  Vulgari  Eloquentia,"  and  others  of  his  mi- 
nor works.  On  this  account,  and  not  for  a  more 
obvious  reason,  he  is  styled  "creator  lingua"  by 
such  of  his  admirers  as  were  also  of  the  sect. 
On  this  account  he  is  represented  under  the 
designation  of  Adam,*  both  by  himself  in  vari- 

*  The  chapter  "  Dante  figurato  in  Adamo,"  is  one  of  the  most 
singular  in  this  singular  book.  In  the  "  De  Vulgari  Eloquentisi," 
Dante  inquires  what  the  first  word  was  that  Adam  spoke,  and 
supposes  it  to  have  been  EL,  the  name  of  God.  "  Absurdum, 
atque  rationi  videtur  horrificum,  ante  Deum  ab  homine  quicquam 
nominatum  fuisse,  cum  ab  ipso  et  per  ipsum  factus  fuisset  homo." 
In  the  Paradise  occurs  a  parallel  passage.  Dante,  in  the  26th 
canto,  represents  himself  as  questioning  Adam  on  the  same  sub- 
ject, who  answers,  "  Pria  ch'io  scendessi  all'  infernale  ambascia, 
I  si  cbiamava  in  terra  il  sommo  Bene  EL  si  chiamo  di  poi."  In- 
stead of  leaving  this  among  the  many  instances  of  recondite  sub- 
tlety to  be  met  with  in  times  of  darkness,  Rossetti  ingeniously 
brings,  in  illustration  of  it,  an  enigmatical  epigram,  usually  as- 
cribed to  Dante,  though  perhaps  on  no  very  good  authority. 

"  O  tu  che  sprezzi  la  nona  figura, 
E^sci  di  men  che  la  sua  antecedente, 
Va  e  raddoppia  la  sua  susseguente, 
Per  altro  non  t'ha  fatto  la  Natura." 

The  "  nona  tigura  "  is  I,  the  ninth  in  the  alphabet.  "  Not  worth 
an  H,"  is  a  common  proverbial  expression  in  Italy.  The  "  double 
subsequent "  makes  the  Greek  word  "  Ko/ca."  Now  the  common 
tradition  has  been,  that  some  one  of  the  Neri  faction  dorided 
Dante  for  his  smallness  of  stature,  calling  him  an  I,  and  that 
in  revenge  this  epigram  was  written.  This,  however,  is  far  too 


SULLO   SPIRITO  ANTIPAPALE."        339 

ous  parts  of  his  works,  and  by  contemporary 
(initiated)  writers.  On  this  account,  too,  his 
adventures  form  the  subject  of  many  artfully 
constructed  romances,  in  which  his  name,  and 
allusions  to  his  poem,  may  be  traced  by  many 
subtle  indications.  After  his  death,  however, 
the  old  disguise  of  love  poetry,  never  entirely 
abandoned  by  himself,  appears  to  have  been  re- 
sumed by  his  successors ;  nor  when  from  the  pen 
of  Petrarch  this  derived  still  more  extensive  ce- 
lebrity and  security,  do  we  find  that  the  other 
veil,  that  of  Catholicism,  was  resorted  to  by  any 
writers  of  eminence.  In  other  countries,  never- 
theless, and  later  times,  religion  was  found  again 
convenient  for/  the  concealment  of  irreligious 
politics.  Many  modern  societies,  the  first  grades 
of  which  bear  a  Christian  character,  led  up  their 

commonplace  a  solution  for  our  Hierophant.  The  I,  according  to 
him,  denotes  Imperatore,  and  he  supposes  it  to  have  been  for  some 
time  the  secret  symbol  used  by  the  sect,  until  for  some  reason  or 
other  it  was  changed  to  E  L,  Enrico  Lucemburghese,  about  the 
time  that  Dante  commenced  his  poem  "  Pria  ch'io  scendessi  all'  in- 
female  ambascia."  The  strange  notice  of  Beatrice's  character  in 
the  Vita  Nuova,  where  she  is  declared  to  be  the  Number  Nine, 
"  because  she  was  perfect,  and  because  the  Holy  Trinity  was  the 
root  of  her  being,"  seems  to  the  Professor  a  corroboration  of  his 
view  of  the  "nona  figura."  The  same  number,  too,  recurs  fre- 
quently in  masonic  language. 


340    PROF.  ROSSETTI' S  "  DISQUIS1ZIONI 

neophytes  by  degrees  to  a  very  different  termi- 
nation. Nor  is  the  practice  unknown  to  recent 
literature.  The  writings  of  Swedenborg,  ac- 
cording to  Rossetti,  afford  an  admirable  illustra- 
tion of  Dante  ;  and  far  from  being  worthy  of  re- 
jection as  the  contemptible  ravings  of  a  fanatic, 
are  in  reality  an  interesting  exposition  of  masonic 
ceremonies.* 

But  upon  what  foundation,  the  astonished 
reader  will  inquire,  on  what  foundation  does  this 
strange  fancy-castle  repose  ?  Where  are  the 
authentic  documents  which  are  to  reverse  the 

*  We  are  inclined  to  put  some  faith  in  Signer  Rossetti's  account 
of  Swedenborg.  It  has  always  struck  us,  whenever  we  have  dip- 
ped into  his  writings,  that  they  are  intended  rather  as  parables  and 
satires,  than  anything  more  serious.  They  are  quite  unlike  the 
heated  conceptions  of  an  enthusiast.  Swedenborg  is  methodical 
and  heavy,  equally  destitute  of  imagination  and  of  wit,  but  some- 
times making  clumsy  attempts  at  the  latter.  We  think  it  not  im- 
probable, that  his  angels  and  spiritual  worlds  among  men  may 
refer,  as  Rossetti  supposes,  to  some  society  of  which  he  was  a  mem- 
ber. Perhaps,  however,  the  account  the  Seer  has  left  us  of  his  first 
vision  may  be  thought  to  furnish  so  simple  an  explanation  of  his 
subsequent  reveries,  that  nothing  further  can  be  required.  "  I 
had  eaten  a  hearty  supper,"  he  tells  us,  "perhaps  too  hearty:  and 
I  was  sitting  alone  in  my  chair,  when  a  bright  being  suddenly 
appeared  to  me,  and  said,  '  Swedenborg,  why  hast  thou  eaten  too 
much?'"  Instead  of  being  bled,  the  simple  Swede  founded  a 
sect,  many  thousand  of  which  exist  at  this  day,  and  in  this  coun- 
try! 


SULLO   SPIRIT 0  ANTIPAPALE."        341 

decisions  of  history  ?  Where  the  credible  wit- 
nesses, whom  we  must  believe  henceforward  in 
contradiction  to  all  our  usual  media  of  informa- 
tion ?  It  is  incumbent  certainly  on  the  learned 
Professor  to  answer  these  questions  without 
delay,  that  we  may  at  least  have  something  to 
believe  in  compensation  for  what  he  has  torn 
from  us.  If  we  are  indeed  to  change  the  old 
scholastic  maxim  into  "  De  apparentibus  et  de 
non  existentibus  eadem  est  ratio,"  let  us  at  least 
be  assured  that  these  substitutions  of  Signer 
Rossetti  are  not  illusory  also.  At  present  we 
feel  the  same  sort  of  impression  from  his  work 
which  has  sometimes  been  produced  in  us  by 
certain  wonderful  effusions  of  philosophy  in  a 
neighboring  country,  where  Reality  and  actual 
Existence  are  held  cheap,  and  considered  as 
uncertain  shadows,  in  comparison  with  some 
mysterious  essences  of  Possibility  and  Incompre- 
hensibleness,  which  lie  close  bottled  up,  at  the 
bottom*  of  all  our  thoughts  and  sensations ! 

*  Hegel,  who  died  last  year  of  Cholera  at  Berlin,  has  been  for 
some  years  undoubted  occupant  of  the  philosophic  throne,  at  least 
in  the  North  of  Germany.  The  Southern  states  still  revere  the 
authority  of  Schelling,  from  whom  Hegel,  having  been  his  disciple, 
thought  proper  to  revolt.  He  occupied  himself  much  in  finding  a 
solution  to  a  problem  of  his  own,  "  How  to  deduce  the  Universe 


342    PROF.  ROSSETTI'S  "  DISQUIS1ZIONI 

But  here  at  all  events  we  are  on  plain  ground  of 
human  life.  We  demand  that  the  consideration 
be  shown  us,  for  which  we  are  to  give  up  the 
inheritances  of  common  belief,  and  to  swear  "  in 
verba  magistri,"  that  nothing  is  as  it  seems  in 
the  whole  course  of  history.  We  are  far  from 
denying  that  an  undercurrent  may  be  discovered 
of  much  greater  magnitude  and  importance  than 
has  hitherto  been  imagined ;  but  we  require 
positive  proof  of  its  existence  in  the  first  place, 
and  afterwards  of  every  additional  inch  of 
ground  assigned  to  its  progress. 

In  such  investigations  as  these,  from  their 
very  nature  ambiguous  and  perplexed,  the  great- 
est delicacy  of  discrimination,  and  the  most  cau- 
tious suspense  of  judgment,  are  absolutely  neces- 

from  the  Absolute  Zero."  We  are  not  aware  that  he  found  one  to 
his  satisfaction ;  one  of  his  followers,  perhaps,  was  more  successful, 
who  published  a  pamphlet  to  prove  that  "  the  historical  Jesus  was 
a  type  of  the  non-existence  of  the  Deity !  "  The  Hegelites  say, 
that  the  most  important  object  of  Philosophy  is  to  trace  the 
boundaries  between  Wesenheit  or  the  Ground  of  Being,  and  Un- 
wesenheit,  or  the  Ground  of  Not  Being.  If  they  could  succeed  in 
this,  they  think  they  would  carry  all  before  them.  We  dare  say 
they  are  right  in  so  thinking ;  but  the  first  step  is  rather  expensive. 
Some  of  them  enlarge  upon  a  fundamental  principle  of  Dunkelheit, 
or  Darkness,  which  they  peem  inclined  to  deify,  and  indeed  every 
syllable  of  their  writings  may  be  considered  an  appropriate  hom- 
age to  such  a  power. 


SULLO  SPIRITO  ANTIPAPALE."       343 

sary,  or  we  are  lost  at  once  in  the  wildest 
dreams.  But  the  gentleman,  with  whom  we 
have  to  do,  never  stops,  never  deliberates,  never 
doubts.  On  he  drives,  in  full  conviction  that  all 
his  past  reading  is  in  his  favor,  and  full  faith 
that  all  his  further  reading  will  confirm  it.  In- 
deed his  trust  in  what  Providence  will  do  for 
him  is  highly  edifying.  If  he  has  not  yet  dis- 
covered a  single  passage  even  in  an  obscure 
author,  which  by  due  wrenching  of  construction 
might  be  brought  in  evidence  for  some  favorite 
notion,  he  considers  that  notion  no  less  demon- 
strated, than  if  he  had  produced  the  concurrent 
testimony  of  all  ancient  and  modern  writers. 
The  possible  future  is  to  him  as  secure  as  the 
actual  past. 

His  great  proposition,  on  the  truth  of  which 
almost    everything   depends,    that   this  *    Setta 

*  "  Before  the  time  of  Dante,  the  Gay  Science  had  established 
its  extensive  fabric  of  illusory  language  on  two  words,  Amore, 
Odio,  from  which  branched  out  a  long  series  of  antitheses,  King- 
dom of  Love,  Kingdom  of  Hate;  pleasure,  pain;  truth,  error;  light, 
darkness;  sun,  moon;  life,  death;  right,  left;  fire,  ice;  garden, 
desert;  courtesy,  rusticity;  nobleness,  baseness;  virtue,  vice;  in- 
telligence, stupidity;  lambs,  wolves;  hill,  valley,  &c.  &c.  Hence 
was  derived  the  name  Setta  d' Amore.  '  Sospiri,'  signified  verses 
in  gergo.  '  Cuore '  indicated  the  great  Secret.  Dante  added  to 
the  list  of  symbols  those  of  God  and  Lucifer;  Christ  and  And- 


344    PROF.  ROSSETTJ'S  « D1SQU1SIZION1 

d'Amore  did  really  exist,  is  not,  he  confesses  it, 
established  by  proof  in  the  present  volume.  For 
the  present,  he  says,  we  must  content  ourselves 
with  an  hypothesis  :  abundant  documents  exist, 
enough  to  make  a  large  book,  by  which  the  mat- 
ter can  be  set  beyond  all  doubt.  Strange  that 
he  should  not  have  thought  it  expedient  to  pro- 
duce these  documents,  if  they  are  in  his  pos- 
session, and  not  merely  assured  to  him  by  the 
strong  faith  to  which  we  have  alluded  !  Strange, 
that  he  should  labor  through  half  this  volume  to 
establish  the  existence  of  this  sect  by  laboriously 
collected  parallelisms  of  different  passages  in 
unconnected  poems,  and  not  dispense  with  all 
this  unnecessary  trouble  by  the  simple  process  of 
proving  the  fact  in  the  first  instance  !  Are  his 
lips  sealed  perhaps  by  a  masonic  oath?  This 
can  hardly  be,  for  he  promises  to  communicate 
these  secrets  at  no  distant  period  ;  and  in  several 
parts  of  his  book  he  gives  us  to  understand  that 
his  information  on  the  masonic  rites  is  entirely 
derived  from  published  works  on  the  subject,  or 
from  such  other  means  as  are  either  lawful,  or  at 

Christ;  Angels  and  Demons;  Paradise  and  Hell;  Jerusalem  and 
Babylon  ;  the  Lady  of  Modesty  and  the  Lady  of  Harlotry;  Tvith 
several  others  of  the  same  kind."  —  ROSSETTI,  cap.  13. 


SULLO  SP1R1TO  ANTIPAPALE."       345 

least  do  not  subject  him  to  penalties  for  indis- 
cretion. But  if  he  has  not  the  fate  of  the  unfor- 
tunate Bracciarone  before  his  eye,*  of  what  can 
he  be  afraid  ?  Truly,  we  apprehend  his  reading 
on  these  matters  has  led  him  to  form  a  greater 
partiality  for  the  cunning  of  the  Fox,  than  for 
the  generous,  breast-opening  Pelican,  or  the 
simplicity  of  the  superior  Dove.  If  indeed,  the 
coincidences  he  has  hitherto  offered  to  our  notice 
are  the  only  proofs  he  can  adduce,  we  cannot 
consider  them  as  decisive  or  substantial.  We 
do  not  deny  that  they  are  very  curious  and 
interesting.  We  know  not  whether  Signer 
Rossetti  has  employed  more  art  in  assembling 
them  than  we  have  been  able  to  detect ;  f  but, 
as  they  stand,  they  certainly  justify  a  presump- 
tion, that  something  beyond  what  meets  the  ear 
was  intended  by  some  of  the  writers,  whose 
works  he  examines.  Still,  we  are  a  long  way 

*  Bracciarone,  according  to  our  author,  was  subjected  to  perse- 
cution for  betraying  the  Chiave,  or  Secret  of  the  Sect. 

t  Occasionally  we  have  found  his  quotations  unfaithful.  It  is 
not  fair  to  extract  part  of  a  sentence  from  "  The  Convito,"  in 
which  Dante  derives  the  word  "  Cortesi  "  from  the  word  "  Corte," 
without  paying  the  slightest  attention  to  the  clause  immediately 
following,  in  which  he  declares  himself  to  mean  the  usage  of  an- 
cient Courts,  and  not  as  such  as  then  flourished. 


346    PROF.  ROSSETTI'S  "  DISQU1SIZIONI 

from  the  "  imaginations  all  compact,"  which  he 
would  force  on  our  acceptance. 

We  are  not  entitled  to  assume  identity  of  pur- 
pose, wherever  we  find  identity  of  expression. 
Because  certain  societies,  existing  at  different 
epochs,  make  use  of  similar  metaphors  in  order 
to  designate  their  secret  proceedings,  it  will  not 
follow  that  those  proceedings  are  identical,  or 
that  any  connection  exists  between  them  beyond 
that  of  mere  exterior  language.  Similar  circum- 
stances are  constantly  producing  similar  results. 
Now  all  secret  societies  are,  in  respect  of  their 
secrecy,  similarly  situated  ;  all  have  the  same 
necessity  of  expressing,  in  their  symbolical"  lan- 
guage, that  relation  of  contrast  to  the  uniniti- 
ated, on  which  their  constitution  depends.  It  is 
natural,  therefore,  that  all  should  seek  for  meta- 
phorical analogies  to  indicate  this  contrast ;  and 
those  analogies  will  be  sought  in  the  contrasts  of 
outward  nature, — in  the  opposition,  for  instance, 
of  light  to  darkness,  warmth  to  cold,  life  to  death, 
and  all  the  others  which  Signor  Rossetti  con- 
siders as  affording  decisive  proofs  of  affiliation, 
whenever  they  occur  in  the  text-books  of  sepa- 
rate societies.  Meanwhile,  masonic  lodges,  even 
in  the  view  of  our  ingenious  author,  do  not  oc- 


SULLO  SPIRITO  ANT1PAPALE."      347 

cupy  the  whole  of  God's  earth.  The  ordinary 
passions  of  our  nature  continue  in  operation, 
without  much  regard  to  them.  But  these  ordi- 
nary passions  require  the  occasional  use  of  meta- 
phors ;  and  as  the  prominent  objects  in  the  ma- 
terial universe  are  always  ready  at  hand,  it  will 
sometimes  happen  that  the  same  comparisons 
may  be  employed  by  persons  who  never  "dreamed 
of  secret  conspiracies  or  initiatory  rites.  Still 
less,  therefore,  is  the  occurrence  of  phrases  in  a 
common  book  resembling  those  in  some  symbolic 
exposition,  any  evidence  of  necessary  connection 
between  things  so  widely  distant.  The  novice, 
who  has  passed  through  his  terrifying  ordeal  in 
the  open  grave  or  coffin,  may  be  told  that  he 
rises  to  new  life  in  the  secluded  privacies  of  his 
lodge  ;  but  it  by  no  means  follows  that  Dante 
must  allude  to  this  circumstance  when  he  uses 
the  same  figure.  It  may  happen  that  more  than 
one  Italian  poet  fixes  some  leading  incident  of 
his  story  at  the  first  hour  of  the  day,  simply  be- 
cause that  time  of  morning  has  a  beautiful,  and 
therefore  a  poetical  character ;  but  there  seems 
no  need  of  recurring  for  a  further  explanation 
of  so  intelligible  a  fact  to  some  mystical  question 
in  a  catechism  of  American  masons.  It  may 


348     PROF.  ROSSETTPS  "  DISQUISIZIONI 

happen  again  that  the  solemnity  and  religious 
importance  attached  by  Platonic  lovers  to  all  cir- 
cumstances connected  with  their  passion,  may 
have  led  them  to  assign  to  the  festivals  of  the 
Christian  church*  any  prominent  event  in  the 
lives  of  their  ladies.  Or  accident  and  imitation 
may  well  be  conceived  to  account  for  such  re- 
semblances; nor  should  it  more  surprise  us  to 
find  some  secret  transactions  of  the  Templars 
dated  on  the  same  days  which  this  or  that  poet 
may  have  selected,  than  to  find  an  English  law 

*  When  Signer  Rossetti  proceeds  to  examine  the  Romantic  Po- 
ets, he  will  not  forget  to  put  in  requisition  that  Canzone,  in  which 
Ariosto,  in  a  delightful  strain  between  banter  and  solemnity,  tells 
us  how  he  first  met  his  mistress  on  "  The  summer  festival  of  good 
St.  John,"  and  how  amidst  the  dances  and  banquets,  the  music 
and  processions,  the  streets  and  theatres  crowded  with  lovely  forms, 
yet,  "in  so  fair  a  place,  he  gazed  on  nothing  fairer  than  her  face." 
Midsummer's  day,  the  feast  of  St.  John,  is  still  a  great  time  of 
rejoicing  among  the  Freemasons.  Signor  Rossetti  can  hardly  have 
failed  to  remark  this  proof  of  his  theory.  But  we  really  expect 
his  thanks  for  suggesting  to  him  a  passage  in  Rousseau's  "  Con- 
fessions," which,  we  doubt  not,  in  his  hands  may  prove  a  key  to 
all  that  was  inexplicable  in  the  character  of  that  unfortunate  man, 
besides  throwing  much  light  on  the  stormy  times  of  the  Revolution. 
Just  before  the  description  of  his  adventure  with  Mademoiselles 
Galley  and  Graffenreid,  a  description  on  which  are  lavished  all  the 
charms  of  an  inimitable  style,  occurs  this  important  remark,  more 
valuable  for  our  Professor  than  all  the  eloquence  and  sentiment  in 
the  world:  "Cetait  la  semaine  apr'es  le  St.  Jean." 


SULLO   SPIRITO  ANTIPAPALE."       349 

term  dating  from  Easter,  or  English  rents  paid 
at  Lady-day.  We  do  not,  however,  mean  to 
represent  all  Signer  Rossetti's  instances  of  coin- 
cidence as  worth  no  more  than  these  we  have 
mentioned.  His  proof  is  of  a  cumulative  char- 
acter, and  injustice  is  done  to  it  by  citing 
detached  parts.  We  will  proceed  to  examine 
rather  more  closely  his  theory  respecting  Dante, 
because  this  is  the  most  important  portion  of  his 
work,  and  will  afford  the  best  specimen  of  his 
mode  of  inductive  reasoning. 

In  the  "  Comento  Analitico,"  published  by 
Rossetti  in  1826—7,  he  broached  a  comparatively 
small  number  of  paradoxes,  to  those  contained  in 
the  present  disquisition,  yet  amply  sufficient  to 
startle  the  public,  and  to  provoke  no  very  lenient 
criticism.  Wincing  under  the  attacks  he  has 
sustained,  our  bold  adventurer  does  not,  how- 
ever, retreat  from  his  post ;  on  the  contrary,  he 
makes  an  advance,  intending  to  carry  the  ene- 
my's camp  by  a  coup  de  main,  or  to  terrify  them 
at  least  to  a  dislodgement,  by  threats  of  still  more 
intrepid  assaults  for  the  future.  The  "  Comen- 
to "  represented  Dante  as  a  politician,  whose 
hatred  to  the  Papal  party  induced  him  to  devise 
a  great  political  allegory,  of  which  his  principal 


35°     PROF.  ROSSETTl'S  "  DISQUIS1ZIONI 

poem  consists ;  but  that  he  was  averse  to  Cath- 
olic doctrines  was  not  there  asserted.  Rossetti's 
defence  of  himself  for  this  excess  of  caution,  since 
even  then  he  allows  he  knew  the  whole  com- 
plexion of  the  case,  is  rather  amusing.*  Now, 
however,  the  veil  is  thrown  off.  Dante  is  not 
only  an  Imperialist,  but  a  Freemason  ;  not  only 
an  opponent  of  the  temporal  power  of  Rome,  but 
an  uncompromising  Reformer,  whose  views  on 
religious  subjects  were  anything  but  Catholic. 
Petrarch,  Boccaccio,  and  a  host  of  others  less  il- 
lustrious, were  to  the  full  as  heretical ;  and  in 
his  capacity  of  a  faithful  son  of  the  Church,  the 
Professor  makes  some  faint  show  of  being  scan- 
dalized at  the  impieties  which  his  industry  has 
discovered.  This  improved  theory  has,  it  cannot 
be  denied,  one  important  advantage  over  its  own 
embryo  condition.  While  political  hostility  was 
alleged  as  the  only  motive  which  could  actuate 
Dante  and  Petrarch  in  assuming  these  strange 
disguises,  it  was  not  easy  to  answer  the  obvious 
question,  "Why  should  these  men  have  taken 
such  infinite  pains  to  say  in  secret  what  on  num- 
berless occasions  they  had  said  in  public  ?  "  The 
poet  who  wrote  that  bitter  line  "  La  dove  Cristo 
*  See  the  last  chapter. 


SULLO  SP1RITO  ANTIPAPALE."        351 

tutto  di  si  merca,"  and  many  others  not  less 
plain  spoken,  could  hardly  have  thought  it  neces- 
sary to  mask  his  sentiments.  All  his  writings 
amply  confirm  the  energetic  declaration  he  has 
left  us  concerning  his  own  character, 

"  Che  s'io  al  Vero  son  timido  amico, 
Temo  di  perder  vita  tra  coloro, 
Che  questo  tempo  chiameranno  antico." 

If,  however,  as  we  are  now  informed,  the  spirit- 
ual supremacy  of  Rome  was  no  less  abhorred 
than  her  usurped  temporalities,  some  answer 
may  be  found  to  an  objection  otherwise  so  fatal. 
Some  motive  certainly  in  this  case  would  appear, 
for  resorting,  in  the  terrible  days  of  the  Inquisi- 
tion, to  these  wonderful  shifts  and  subtleties. 
Still,  we  do  not  see  how  Signer  Rossetti  strength- 
ens his  cause  by  bringing  together  instances  of 
strong  language  openly  used  against  Rome,  since 
the  more  he  shows  to  have  been  uttered  without 
disguise,  the  less  shall  we  be  inclined  to  admit  its 
necessity.  In  the  direct  argument  he  altogether 
fails.  We  see  no  reason  to  suppose  that  the 
Ghibelline  party,  as  a  body,  entertained  infidel 
sentiments  ;  and  certainly  none  whatever  that 
Dante,  in  particular,  was  not  a  submissive  son  oi 
the  Church.  Rossetti  may  make  some  converts, 


352     PROF.  ROSSETTPS  "  DISQUISIZ10NI 

but  there  is  one  who  will  never  come  over  to  his 
opinion  —  the  Muse  of  History.*  She  tells  us 
that  the  Bianchi,  of  whom  Dante  was  a  leader, 
and  with  whom  he  suffered,  were  not  originally 
Ghibellines.  They  were  a  division  of  the  Guelf 
party.  It  is  notorious  that  Dante  fought  in  his 
youth  against  the  Ghibelline  Fuorusciti,  and  his 
use  of  "  vostri,"  in  the  dialogue  with  Farinata, 
sufficiently  indicates  to  what  party  he  considered 
himself  naturally  to  belong.  When  the  force  of 
circumstances  drove  the  Bianchi  into  a  closer 
connection  with  the  Imperialists,  there  is  no 
ground  for  supposing  that  they  offered  in  sacri- 
fice to  Caesar  all  the  prejudices  in  which  they 
had  been  educated.  At  all  events,  until  the 
injustice  of  the  Neri  rulers  had  affected  the  alli- 
ance of  their  new  with  their  ancient  enemies,  f  it 

*  The  Caucellieri  Bianchi  and  Cancellieri  Neri,  were  originally 
factions  at  Pistoia.  Gradually  these  names  migrated  to  the  capi- 
tal; and  the  partisans  of  the  Cerchi  began  to  be  denominated 
White,  while  Corso's  followers  took  pride  in  being  Black. 

t  Let  it  be  remembered,  too,  that  Dante  married  a  Donati,  and 
that,  when  invested  with  authority  as  one  of  the  Priori,  he  im- 
partially exercised  the  restrictive  powers  of  the  law  against  the 
leaders  of  both  factions.  Posterity  would  have  heard  nothing  of 
his  Ghibellinism,  had  not  the  ill-omened  presence  of  Charles  de 
Valois  given  power  and  a  desperate  mind  to  the  adherents  of 
Donati.  See  the  narrative  of  Dino  Compagni,  the  best  authority 
on  these  subjects. 


SULLO   SPIRITO  ANTIPAPALE."        353 

is  utterly  improbable  that  Dante  and  those  of  his 
faction  were  versed  in  all  the  wild  words  and 
daring  opinions,  which  might  be  current  in  the 
Emperor's  court.  Yet  Rossetti  would  have  us 
believe  that  before  the  events  occurred  which 
detached  him  finally  from  the  Roman  party,  he 
was  already  as  deep  in  heresy  as  the  supposed 
author  of  "  De  tribus  Impostoribus." 

We  should  certainly  feel  grateful  for  any  the- 
ory that  should  satisfactorily  explain  the  Vita 
Nuova.  No  one  can  have  read  that  singular 
work,  without  having  found  his  progress  perpetu- 
ally checked,  and  his  pleasure  impaired,  by  the 
occurrence  of  passages  apparently  unintelligible, 
or  presenting  only  an  unimportant  meaning,  in 
phrases  the  most  laborious  and  involved.  These 
difficulties  we  have  been  in  the  habit  of  referring, 
partly  to  corruptions  in  the  text,  for  of  all  the 
works  of  Dante  *  there  is  none  in  which  the  edi- 
tions are  so  at  variance,  and  the  right  readings 
so  uncertain ;  partly  to  the  scholastic  forms  of 
language  with  which  all  writers  at  the  revival  of 
literature  —  but  none  so  much  as  Dante,  a  stu- 

*  Dr.  Xott  informed  the  writer  of  these  remarks,  that  he  had 
been  enabled,  by  collating  several  Italian  MSS.  not  generally- 
known,  to  rectify  many  apparent  obscurities  in  the  Comedia  it- 
self. 

23 


354    PROF.  ROSSETTFS  "  D1SQU1S1ZION1 

dent  in  many  universities,  and  famous  among 
his  countrymen  and  foreigners  for  the  depth  of 
his  scientific  acquirements  —  delighted  to  over- 
load the  simplicity  of  their  subject.  Certainly, 
until  Signer  Rossetti  suggested  the  idea,  we 
never  dreamed  of  looking  for  Ghibelline  enigmas 
in  a  narrative  apparently  so  remote  from  politics. 
Nor  did  it  occur  to  us  to  seek  even  for  moral 
meanings,  that  might  throw  a  forced  and  doubt- 
ful light  on  these  obscurities.  Whatever  uncer- 
tain shape  might,  for  a  few  moments,  be  assumed 
by  the  Beatrice  of  the  Comedia,  imparadised  in 
overpowering  effluences  of  light  and  music,  and 
enjoying  the  immediate  vision  of  the  Most  High, 
here  at  least,  in  the  mild  humility  and  modest 
nobleness  of  the  living  and  loving  creature,  to 
whom  the  sonnets  and  canzones  are  addressed, 
we  did  believe  we  were  safe  from  allegory. 
Something  indeed  there  was  of  vagueness  and 
unreality  in  the  picture  we  beheld :  but  it  never 
disturbed  our  faith ;  for  we  believed  it  to  arise 
from  the  reverential  feeling  which  seemed  to 
possess  the  poet's  imagination,  and  led  him  to 
concentrate  all  his  loftiest  sentiments  and  pure 
ideas  of  perfection  in  the  object  of  his  youthful 
passion,  consecrated  long  since  and  idealized  to 


SULLO  SPIR1TO  ANTIPAPALE."       355 

his  heart,  by  the  sanctities  of  the  overshadowing 
tomb.  It  was  a  noble  thing,  we  thought,  to  see 
the  stern  politician,  the  embittered  exile,*  the 
man  worn  by  the  world's  severest  realities,  who 
knew  how  sharp  it  was  to  mount  another's  stairs, 
and  eat  another's  bread,  in  his  old  age ;  yet, 
amidst  these  sufferings  and  wounded  feelings, 
recurring  with  undaunted  memory  to  the  days 
of  his  happy  boyhood  :  not  for  purposes  of  vain 
regret ;  not  for  complaints  of  deceived  expecta- 
tion ;  not  to  color  the  past  time  with  the  sombre 
tints  of  the  present :  but  to  honor  human  nature ; 
to  glorify  disinterested  affection  ;  to  celebrate 
that  solemn,  primeval,  indissoluble  alliance  be- 
tween the  imagination  and  the  heart.  It  was 
this  consideration,  we  confess,  that  imparted  its 
principal  charm  to  the  character  of  Beatrice, 
both  in  the  Vita  Nuova,  and  the  great  poem, 

*  It  is  by  no  means  certain  that  the  Vita  Nuova  was  composed 
after  the  stormy  period  of  Dante's  life  had  begun.  Rossetti  takes 
for  granted  that  it  was  written  after  1302,  the  date  of  his  exile. 
He,  of  course,  rejects  entirely  the  apparent  authority  of  Boccaccio 
in  his  Vita  di  Dante,  where  it  is  expressly  stated  that  the  poet 
wrote  it  in  his  twenty-seventh  year,  i.  e.  about  1292.  It  may, 
however,  have  been  retouched  afterwards.  Certainly  the  conclu- 
sion seems  to  refer  to  the  Comedia  as  a  work  already  in  hand ;  yet 
we  have  no  reason  to  think  any  of  this  was  written  before  1300,  the 
date  assigned  by  Dante  himself. 


356    PROF.  ROSSETTl'S  » DISQUIS1Z10NI 

which  seemed  its  natural  prolongation.  We 
liked  to  view  these  works  in  what  appeared  to 
be  their  obvious  relation  ;  nor  could  we  ever 
read  without  emotion  that  passage  in  the  conclu- 
sion of  the  former,  in  which  the  poet,  feeling 
even  then  his  lips  touched  by  the  inspiring  cher- 
ubim, speaks  loftily,  but  indistinctly,  of  that 
higher  monument  he  was  about  to  raise  to  her 
whom  he  had  already  celebrated  with  so  ample 
a  ritual  of  melodious  eulogy.  In  the  Paradise, 
and  the  latter  part  of  the  Purgatory,  we  have 
intimated  already,  that  the  reality  of  Beatrice 
Portinari  seemed,  for  a  time,  to  become  absorbed 
into  those  celestial  truths,  of  which  she  had  always 
been  a  mirror  to  the  imagination  of  her  lover. 
Described  throughout  as  most  pure,  most  hum- 
ble, most  simple,  most  affectionate,  and  as  the 
personal  form  in  which  Dante  delighted  to  con- 
template the  ideal  objects  of  his  moral  feelings, 
is  it  wonderful  that  she  should  become  at  last  for 
him  the  representative  of  religion  itself  ?  We 
rise  indeed  a  step  higher  by  this  bold  personifica- 
tion, but  that  step  is  on  the  same  ascent  we  have 
climbed  with  him  from  the  beginning.  Judged 
by  the  exact  standard  of  calculated  realities,  it 
was  no  more  true  that  Beatrice  deserved  the 


SULLO   SPIR1TO  ANTIPAPALE."       357 

praises  of  those  early  sonnets,  than  that  she  is 
worthy  to  represent  the  Church,  or  Religion,  in 
the  solemn  procession  through  terrestrial  Para- 
dise. Imagination  gave  her  the  first ;  imagina- 
tion assigns  the  last:  according  as  our  tempers 
are  disposed,  we  may  blame  the  extravagance 
of  the  fiction,  or  sympathize  with  that  truth  of 
feeling,  which  raises  round  its  delicate  vitality 
this  protecting  veil ;  but  we  cannot,  in  fairness 
of  reasoning,  assume  the  absence  of  any  real 
groundwork  in  the  one  representation  of  Bea- 
trice, unless  we  are  prepared  to  deny  it  also  in 
the  other.  Signor  Rossetti,  indeed,  is  fully  so 
prepared.  He  considers  such  a  passion,  as  is 
usually  thought  to  be  depicted  in  the  poems  of 
that  time,  as  utterly  chimerical  and  absurd  ;  and 
wonders  at  the  stupidity  of  those  learned  men 
who  have  written  volumes  on  the  contrary  sup- 
position. On  this  point  we  shall  have  a  word 
to  say  presently.  Here  we  confine  ourselves  to 
maintaining  that  a  character  may  be  allegorical 
in  part,  wifhout  being  so  altogether.  We  are 
not  inclined,  therefore,  to  admit  the  force  of 
Rossetti's  argument,  founded  on  the  famous 
scene  of  the  chariot  ;  because,  when  we  have 
cheerfully  granted  that  the  daughter  of  Folco 


358    PROF.  ROSSETTPS  « DISQUISIZ10N1 

Portinari  was  never  robbed  of  the  Christian 
Church  by  a  Babylonian  harlot,  we  do  not  agree 
with  him  that  we  have  conceded  all  that  is  of 
moment  in  the  question.  We  are  still,  it  seems 
to  us,  at  liberty  to  contend,  not  merely  that  a 
Florentine  lady,  named  Beatrice,  did  actually 
exist,  and  was  beloved  by  Dante,  but  that  she  is 
the  very  Beatrice  whose  imaginary  agency  he 
exhibits  to  us  in  his  poem,  and  whose  real  con- 
duct he  describes  in  his  "  Life."  But  while  we 
are  determined,  by  the  force  of  what  our  author 
dismisses  at  once  as  foolish  prejudice  and  second- 
hand sentimentality,  not  to  yield  a  single  inch 
of  ground  further  than  facts  oblige  us,  we 
frankly  confess  his  observations  have  made  so 
much  impression  on  us,  that  we  fear  (at  the  risk 
of  the  Professor's  contempt,  we  must  use  that 
word)  there  may  be  more  of  allegory  in  the  two 
last  of  the  Cantiche  of  the  Comedia,  than  we 
had  hitherto  imagined.  He  need  not  triumph  in 
this  concession.  We  are  ready  to  die  fighting  in 
the  cause,  rather  than  go  the  whole  lengths  of  a 
theory  which  would  have  us  acknowledge  noth- 
ing in  the  "  dolce  guida  e  cara,"  whose  smile 
brightened  the  brightness  of  Paradise,  but  a 
mixture  of  a  possible  good  Pope  and  a  possible 
good  Emperor! 


SULLO  SPIRITO  ANTIPAPALE."        359 

Besides,  the  new  interpretation  of  the  Vita 
Nuova  appears  to  us  forced  and  desperate.  It 
might  not  be  difficult,  we  imagine,  to  find  twenty 
other  hidden  meanings  at  least  as  plausible.  We 
will,  however,  give  it  at  length,  that  our  readers 
may  judge.  The  whole  of  that  treatise,  then,  it 
appears,  is  a  narration,  in  gergo,  of  one  fact,  — 
the  change  from  Madonna  Cortesia  or  Imperial- 
ism, to  Madonna  Pieta  or  Romanism.  In  proof 
of  this,  we  have  the  second  vision  quoted :  "II 
dolcissimo  Signore,  il  quale  mi  signoreggiava,  per 
la  virtu  della  gentilissima  donna  nella  mia  im- 
maginazione,  apparve  come  pellegrino  leggier- 
mente  vestito  e  di  vili  drappi."  This  indicates, 
we  are  told,  that  Dante  was  about  to  undertake 
an  allegorical  pilgrimage,  clothed  in  Guelfic  gar- 
ments. Love,  who  looked  "  as  if  his  seignory 
had  passed  away,"  proceeds  to  tell  the  poet,  "Io 
vengo  da  quella  donna  la  quale  e  stata  lunga  tua 
difesa,  e  so  che  il  suo  venire  non  sara :  e  pero 
quel  cuore  ch'io  ti  faceva  aver  da  lei  io  Tho 
meco,  e  portolo  a  donna,  la  quale  sara  tua  difen- 
sione,  come  costei ;  e  nominollami,  sicche  io  la 
conobbi  bene."  Then  Love  disappears,  and  the 
poet  remains  "  cambiato  in  vista,"  (that  is,  says 
Rossetti,  in  his  outward  appearance),  and  tells 


360    PROF.  ROSSETTl'S  «  D1SQUIS1ZION1 

us,  "  Dico  quello  che  amore  ni  disse,  avvegnache 
non  compiutamente,  per  tema  ch'io  avea  di  non 
scoprire  il  mio  segreto."  This  secret  is  the 
name  of  the  new  lady  to  whom  he  is  to  feign 
love.  The  evil  rumors  which  began  to  gather 
against  Dante,  on  the  occasion  of  this  "  nuova 

O  ' 

difesa,"  for  "  troppa  gente  ne  ragionava  oltre  ai 
termini  della  Cortesia  "  (that  is,  many  persons 
not  belonging  to  the  Imperial  party),  occasioned 
some  stern  behavior  in  Beatrice,  who  denied 
her  lover  the  accustomed  salutation.  In  other 
words,  the  Imperial  party  began  to  suspect  him 
of  being  a  Papist :  "  which,"  the  Professor  adds, 
with  some  na'ivete,  "  was  natural  enough,  seeing 
that  all  the  world  has  hitherto  made  the  same 
mistake."  Then  follows  a  dream  of  Dante,  in 
which  Love  appeared  to  him,  and  said,  "  Fili 
mi,  tempus  est  ut  prsetermittantur  simulacra 
nostra."  After  which  he  is  commanded  to  make 
a  Ballata,  in  which  he  should  speak  to  his  Beati- 
tude, not  immediately,  but  indirectly,  and  should 
place  in  the  midst  of  it  some  words,  adorned 
with  sweetest  harmony,  that  might  declare  his 
real  intention  to  the  lady  herself.  The  Ballata 
follows,  and  the  poet  directs  it  to  seek  his 
Madonna,  "  Presso  ch'avresti  chiesta,  pietate." 


SULLO   SPIR1TO  ANTIPAPALE."        361 

According  to  the  new  interpretation,  this  Ballata 
is  a  symbol  of  the  Divina  Commedia,  and  the* 
words  "  nel  mezzo  "  refer  to  the   description  of 
terrestrial    Paradise    in    the  latter   part  of    the 
Purgatory,   concerning  which  we  shall  hear  a  < 
good  deal  presently.     The  sonnet,  which  comes 
next  in  order,  preceded  by  a  prose  paraphrase  in 
Dante's  usual  fashion,  does  not  certainly  present 
a  very  intelligible  sense,  according  to  its  literal 
acceptation. 

Tutti  11  miei  pensier  parlan  d'Amore, 

Ed  hanno  in  lor  si  gran  varietate, 

Ch'altro  mi  fa  voler  sua  potestate, 

Altro  folle  ragiona  il  suo  valore, 
Altro  sperando  m'  apporta  dolzore, 

Altro  pianger  mi  fa  spesse  fiate, 

E  sol  s'  accordano  in  chieder  Pietate, 

Tremando  di  paura  ch'e  nel  core! 
Ond'  io  non  so  da  qual  materia  prenda, 

E  vorrei  dire,  e  non  so  ch'  io  mi  dica, 

Cosl  mi  trovo  in  amorosa  erranza. 
E  se  con  tutti  vo  fare  accordanza, 

Convienemi  chiamar  la  mia  nemica, 

Madonna  la  Pieta,  che  mi  difenda.* 

*  Whether  "  Pieta "  is  in  this  instance  adequately  translated 
\)y  "  Pity,"  seems  rather  difficult  to  determine.  On  Rossetti's  hy- 
pothesis, it  signifies  "  Piety."  There  are,  however,  innumerable 
passages  in  Dante,  which,  without  the  most  barefaced  violence, 
could  not  be  brought  to  bear  such  a  construction  of  the  word.  In 
the  Vocabolario  della  Crusca,  only  one  instance  is  cited,  (from 


362     PROF.  ROSSETTfS  " DISQU1SIZIONI 

I  have  no  thought  that  does  not  speak  of  lore; 

They  have  in  them  so  great  variety, 

That  one  bids  me  desire  his  sovranty, 
One  with  mad  speech  his  goodness  would  approve ; 
Another,  bringing  hope,  brings  pleasantness, 

And  yet  another  makes  me  often  weep: 

In  one  thing  only  do  they  concord  keep. 
~    Calling  for  Pity,  in  timorous  distress. 

So  know  I  not  which  thought  to  choose  for  song; 

Fain  would  I  speak,  but  wild  words  come  and  go, 

And  in  an  amorous  maze  I  wander  long. 
No  way  but  this,  if  Concord  must  be  made, 

To  call  upon  Madonna  Pity's  aid ; 

And  yet  Madonna  Pity  is  my  foe. 

"  I  say  Madonna,"  Dante  adds,  "  speaking,  as 
it  were,  disdainfully."  In  the  new  theory  this 
mysterious  Madonna  Pieta  represents  the  Cath- 
olic religion ;  and  the  sonnet  is  an  announcement 
of  the  new  disguise  found  necessary  for  the  sect. 
Dante  then  vindicates  his  frequent  personifica- 
tions of  Love,  quoting  Ovid,  who  puts  into  the 
mouth  of  Love  as  of  a  human  person,  "  Bella^ 

Casa),  in  which  Pieta  is  used  in  this  sense:  —  "  Buon  animo,  con- 
forme  alia  perpetua  Pieta  e  religione  di  Dio."  Generally  speaking, 
Pieta  may  either  be  rendered  by  compassion,  or  it  has  a  wider  sig- 
nification, answering  in  some  degree  to  that  of  Pietas  in  Latin,  or 
EvoepEia  in  Greek,  as  e.  g.,  in  this  passage  from  the  Tesoretto 
of  I . at  in  i:  "  Pietade  non  e  passione,  anzi  una  nobile  disposizione 
d'animo,  apparecchiata  di  ricevere  amore,  misericordia  e  altre 
caritative  passioni." 


SULLO  SP1RITO  ANTIPAPALE."        363 

mihi  video,  bella  parantur,  ait."  "  And  by  this 
my  book  may  be  rendered  clear  to  any  one  that 
doubts  respecting  any  part  of  it."  Of  course 
this  quotation  from  Ovid  is  eagerly  laid  hold  of 
by  Signor  Rossetti,  who  considers  it  a  key  of  the 
whole  treatise,  and  it  must  be  owned  it  suits 
his  purpose  well.  The  death  of  poor  Beatrice, 
although  not  the  next  incident  mentioned  by 
Dante,  is  the  next  he  finds  serviceable :  and  the 
mode  of  describing  it  affords  room  for  much 
triumph  on  the  part  of  our  new  interpreter. 
"  Quomodo  sola  sedet  civitas  plena  populo  ! 
Facta  est  quasi  vidua  domina  gentium  !  II  Sig- 
nore  della  Giustizia  chiamo  quella  gentilissima," 
&c.  Now  it  seems  there  is  extant  a  Latin  letter, 
written  by  Dante  to  the  conclave  of  cardinals  on 
the  occasion  of  the  death  of  Clement  V.,  exhort- 
ing them  to  elect  an  Italian  pontiff,  and  thus  to 
bring  back  the  chair  of  Peter  from  Avignon  to 
Rome.  This  letter  begins  with  the  very  words 
above  mentioned,  "  Quomodo  sola  sedet,"  &c. 
By  this  step  Dante  declared  himself  a  partisan 
of  Romanism,  anxious  for  the  supremacy  of  the 
eternal  city.  It  was,  therefore,  according  to 
Rossetti,  an  act  of  deception,  a  bait  thrown  out 
to  nibbling  Guelfs,  and  exactly  of  a  piece  with 


364    PROF.  ROSSETTPS  "  DISQUISIZ10NI 

his  scheme  of  concealing  heresy  in  an  apparently 
orthodox  poem.  It  is  evident,  the  Professor 
thinks,  that  the  death  of  Beatrice  indicates  the 
completion  of  the  change  to  seeming  Romanism, 
and  that  this  extract  of  the  Latin  letter  was  in- 
troduced to  show  it.  He  expatiates  on  the  indif- 
ferent, unimpassioned  style  in  which  the  death  is 
first  mentioned :  the  strange  passage  in  which 
Beatrice  is  declared  to  be  the  number  nine,  three 
times  three,  on  account  of  her  perfection,  and 
because  the  Trinity  was  the  root  of  her  moral 
being,  appears  to  him  a  decisive  proof  that  no 
real  person  is  here  described,  but  a  fictitious, 
allegorical  creation,  such  as  he  has  pointed  out. 
This,  however,  is  far  from  being  the  only  sig- 
nification which  he  attaches  to  the  death  of 
Beatrice.  The  important  change  of  gergo  oc- 
curred, once  for  all,  under  the  auspices  of  Dante ; 
but  what  then  are  we  to  make  of  Laura,  Fiam- 
metta,  Selvaggia,  and  other  objects  of  Platonic 
affection,  equally  indispensable  to  the  Professor's 
theory  ?  *  His  excursive  fancy  scorns  to  be  con- 

*  To  the  list,  which  he  already  considers  large  enough  to  need 
his  explanation,  may  be  added  the  Caterina  of  Camoens,  the  Elisa 
in  the  Eclogues  of  Garcilaso,  the  "  departed  saint  "  of  Miltcn,  the 
Thyrza  of  Byron,  the  Lucy  of  Wordsworth,  and  half  a  hundred 
more,  whom  we  should  be  weary  of  enumerating.  Perhaps  in  some 


SULLO  SPIRITO  ANTIPAPALE."        365 

fined  to  the  limits  of  a  single  interpretation,  even 
when  it  is  the  cherished  fruit  of  his  own  labors. 
That  all  those  ladies  should  die  before  their 
lovers,  is  too  great  a  prodigy  for  his  scepticism  to 
digest.  There  must  be  a  deep  secret  in  it ;  and 
by  dint  of  searching  in  masonic  books,  and  study- 
ing Swedenborg,  he  thinks  he  has  discovered  it. 
These  "  donne  gentili,"  it  turns  out,  are  only 
beautiful  truths,  relative  to  a  future  perfect  gov- 
ernment, which  the  initiated  naturally  fall  in 
love  with,  and  whose  pretended  deaths  relate  to 
a  mysterious  ritual  function  in  the  secret  socie- 
ties. Thus  Beatrice  is  a  part  of  Dante,  and 
Laura  of  Petrarch.  The  grief  of  these  faithful 
lovers  for  their  departed  mistresses,  is  grief  only 
in  the  external  man,  beyond  which  the  unini- 
tiated can  understand  nothing.  But  the  inner 
soul,  which  lives  a  true  life  in  the  possession  of 
its  great  secret,  rejoices  all  the  while,  and  smiles 
at  the  hypocritical  tears  of  its  outward  counte- 
nance. Reserving  to  ourselves  the  privilege  of 
offering  some  objections  to  this  strange  account, 
when  we  come  to  speak  of  Petrarch,  we  will 

future  edition  we  may  hope  for  an  opposite  list  of  poets,  who  have 
died  before  their  mistresses;  a  fact  equally  curious,  it  seems  to  us, 
and  equally  worthy  of  masonic  interpretation. 


366    PROF.  ROSSETTPS  "  D1SQUISIZIONI 

now  lay  before  our  readers  two  extracts  from 
that  portion  of  Signor  Rossetti's  work  which 
treats  of  the  "  Divina  Commedia." 

This  poem,  lie  tells  us,  is  a  political  allegory 
throughoiit.  The  Inferno  represents  Italy,  the 
Abisso  at  the  end  being  Rome,  and  the  episodic 
scene  in  the  ninth  canto  being  intended  to 
shadow  forth  the  state  of  Florence,  and  the  ar- 
rival of  Henry  of  Luxemburg.  Purgatory  is 
the  actual  condition  of  the  Setta  d'Amore,  tor- 
mented and  without  rest,  yet  happy,  "perche 
speran  di  venire,  Quando  che  sia,  alle  beate 
genti."  Paradise  is  the  Emperor's  court  as  it 
will  be  hereafter,  when  Maria,  or  the  Immacu- 
late Sect,  shall  have  brought  forth  Christ,  the 
anointed  heir  of  the  empire,  who  shall  execute 
the  great  judgment  on  Babylon  or  Rome,  and 
elevate  all  who  have  faithfully  served  him  to 
peace  and  honor  in  his  court.  The  Professor 
shall  explain  these  things  in  his  own  words. 

It  will  be  allowed,  I  suppose,  that  in  these  two  expres- 
sions—  "H  Hondo  presente,"  "E  Tempo  presente,"  the 
two  words  mondo  and  tempo  are  equivalent  in  sense,  and 
may  be  considered  synonymous.  Now,  in  the  Purgatorio, 
Dante  asks  a  spirit  for  what  reason  "  il  mondo  fosse  cosl 
privo  di  virtu,  e  gravido  di  malizia."  And  he  makes  the 


SULLO  SPIRITO  ANT1PAPALE."      367 

spirit  answer  him,  Ben  puoi  veder,"  &c.  You  may  easily 
perceive  that  bad  government  is  the  cause  from  which  pro- 
ceeds the  guiltiness  of  the  world.  When  Rome  had  two 
luminaries  (the  Emperor  and  the  Pope),  who  pointed  out 
to  us  the  two  ways,  that  of  the  world,  or  political  well- 
being,  and  that  of  God,  or  spiritual  felicity,  then  Rome 
produced  the  good  time;  but  since  one  has  destroyed 
the  other  (the  Pope  has  eclipsed  the  Emperor),  the  exact 
contrary  has  taken  place  ;  for  the  people,  perceiving  their 
spiritual  guide  only  intent  on  stealing  that  temporal  good 
which  their  own  appetites  desire,  follow  readily  the  bad 
example  of  their  head,  and  glut  themselves  with  the  things 
of  this  life,  having  no  regard  whatever  to  spiritual  good. 
The  Church  of  Rome,  therefore,  is  the  cause  of  such  a 
depravation.  She  has  perverted  the  two  governments, 
as  well  that  which  is  her  own  as  that  which  she  usurped, 
whereby  she  has  fallen  into  the  filth  of  all  wickedness,  and 
pollutes  not  only  herself  but  whoever  leans  on  her."  In 
another  part  of  the  Purgatory,  he  says  yet  more  clearly, 
"  II  capo  reo  lo  mondo  torce."  Hence  the  idea  of  Dante 
is  evident,  and  expressly  contained  in  his  words.  Rome, 
when  good,  had  produced  the  good  time.  Rome,  when 
bad.  produced  the  bad  time ;  because  the  bad  head,  in 
which  the  time  is  reflected,  gave  the  example  of  depravity. 
Now  all  the  Inferno  of  Dante  has  for  its  principal  element 
the  bad  time,  the  same  which  Boccaccio  mentions  as  the 
source  of  all  the  Tartarean  streams  described  by  the  poet. 
The  G-hibelline  bard  represents  it  in  the  fourteenth  canto, 
under  the  aspect  of  a  vast  Colossus,  composed  of  various 
metals  corresponding  to  the  various  fictitious  ages,  golden, 


368    PROF.   ROSSETTI'S  "  DISQ.U1SIZIONI 

silver,  copper,  and  iron.  But  in  what  direction  is  situated 
this  bad  time,  all  whose  productions  are  poured  into  hell  ? 
In  what  place  is  it  mirrored,  as  a  perfect  likeness  ?  "  E 
Roma  guarda  siccome  suo  speglio." 

In  the  Inferno,  Dante  tells  us  that  the  Evangelist,  who 
wrote  the  Apocalypse,  beholding  "  Colei  che  siede  sopra 
1'acque,"  saw  a  figure  of  the  corrupted  papacy.  She  is  the 
great  harlot,  "  quae  sedet  super  aquas  niultas,"  and  those 
waters  are  figures  of  nations  "et  aquae  quas  vidisti,  ubi 
Meretrix  sedet,  populi  sunt  et  gentes."  The  waters, 
therefore,  produced  by  the  bad  time,  which  mirrors  itself 
in  corrupted  Rome,  are  figures  of  corrupted  nations,  "  la 
gente  che  sua  guida  vede."  Let  us  follow  the  course  of 
these  waters,  and  see  where  they  discharge  themselves. 
They  are  poured,  we  shall  find,  into  the  lake  of  the  abyss, 
where  Satan  dwells,  "  in  su  che  Dite  siede."  This  lake 
is  surrounded  by  a  great  wall,  and  the  wall  by  a  vast  in- 
trenchment ;  the  latter  is  twenty-two  miles  in  circuit,  the 
former  eleven.  Now  the  outer  intrenchment  of  the  walls 
of  Rome  (whether  real  or  imaginary)  is  said  by  the  con- 
temporaries of  Dante  to  be  exactly  twenty-two  miles 
round,  and  the  walls  themselves  were,  and  still  are,  about 
eleven.  It  is  obvious,  therefore,  that  the  bad  time  is  in- 
tended to  behold,  as  a  mirror,  that  bad  place,  which  is  the 
receptacle  of  those  waters,  or  nations ;  in  other  words  that 
figurative  Rome,  "  in  su  che  Dite  siede  !  "  The  waters  re- 
turn to  their  great  fountain ;  this  is  a  physical  fact,  used 
allegoric-ally  :  the  perverted  nations  to  the  source  of  their 
iniquities :  this  is  the  meaning  of  the  allegorical  image. 

The  characteristic  vice  of  the  Papal  Court  was  avarice. 


SULLO   SPIRITO  ANTIPAPALE."       369 

A  thousand  writers  tell  us  so,  and  Dante  among  the  rest. 
The  Demon  of  Avarice,  when  he  sees  Dante  descend 
through  Hell,  cries  out  to  him,  "  Pap'  e  Satan,  Pap'  e 
Satan,  Aleppe."  All  commentators  explain  "  Aleppe," 
as  prince,  from  the  Hebrew  Aleph,  just  as  Gioseppe 
comes  from  Joseph.  For  this  reason,  the  demon  cries, 
"  The  Pope  is  Satan,  Prince  of  this  Hell."  Before  wo 
pursue  the  demonstration,  we  must  make  one  remark  on 
this  verse.  It  has  driven  the  commentators  mad ;  they 
give  it  up  as  unintelligible :  now  we  understand  what  it 
means.  The  two  measurements,  spoken  of  above,  were 
always  thought  to  be  mentioned  at  random;  now  we  per- 
ceive the  evident  allusion.  Observe,  too,  they  are  the 
only  measurements  to  be  found  in  all  the  Inferno,  and 
they  are  derived  from  no  geographical  dimension,  nor 
any  Scriptural  doctrine  :  now  we  see  at  once  from  what 
quarter  they  are  derived.  And  by  the  help  of  these  pas- 
sages, we  may  understand  the  origin  of  many  other  allu- 
sions to  Rome  and  its  Sovereign. 

The  Lake  of  the  Abyss,  central  point  of  the  region  of 
wickedness  governed  by  the  Demon  Gerione,  is  surround- 
ed by  moats,  and  a  chain  of  successive  bridges  leads  to 
the  great  wall  of  this  Lake.  Dante  likens  these  motes  to 
those  which  surround  a  fortified  city,  and  the  bridges  to 
those  which  lead  into  such  a  city,  and  the  damned  spirits 
crossing  the  first  bridge,  to  those  who  cross  the  bridge  of 
Castel  Santangelo  at  Rome,  "  e  vanno  a  S.  Pietro."  We 
cannot,  in  this  place,  explain  whom  the  demon  of  fraud, 
called  Gerione,  "  qui  tribus  unus  erat,"  is  intended  to 
represent:  but  only  let  us  keep  in  mind  that  Dante's 
24 


370     PROF.  ROSSETTI'S  "  DISQUIS1ZIONI 

Satan  is  also  "  tribus  unus."  Now  can  we  fully  declare 
the  purport  of  those  bridges  over  which  the  Demon  pre- 
sides :  only  let  us  keep  in  mind  an  etymology,  sufficiently 
common,  "  Pontifex  a  pontibus  faciundis." 

The  famous  734  towers  of  the  Roman  walls,  mentioned 
by  Pliny,  were  in  the  time  of  Dante,  nearly  half  remain- 
ing. These  towers  caused  many  allusions  to  those  of 
Babylon :  and  such  allusions  there  are  in  Dante.  The 
wall  that  encloses  the  Abyss  is  crowned  with  far-seen 
towers,  "  Montereggion  di  torri  si  corona."  There,  in 
that  thick  gloom,  "  A  lui  parve  veder  molte  alte  torri." 
He  asked,  "What  city  is  this?  What  land  is  this?" 
His  guide  answered  him,  "  Sappi,  che  non  son  torri,  ma 
giganti,"  who  were  towering,  "  di  mezzala  persona,"  over 
that  wall  which  was  eleven  miles  round.  Dante  perceives 
the  first  to  be  a  giant,  and  his  head  appeared,  "  Come  la 
pina  di  S.  Pietro  a  Roma." 

Let  us  now  set  together  six  distinct  points  which  bear 
relation  to  each  other,  and  have  one  common  direction. 
The  trench  which  surrounds  the  lake  of  the  abyss,  has  the 
precise  dimensions  of  the  intrenchment  at  Rome.  The 
wall  which  surrounds  the  abyss,  in  which  Satan  resides, 
has  the  precise  dimensions  of  the  Roman  walls  within 
which  the  Pope  resides.  The  Demon  of  Avarice  exclaims, 
"  Pape,"  &c.  The  corrupt  time,  which  sends  forth  into 
the  abyss  its  wicked  nations,  made  so  by  itself,  "  Roma 
guarda,"  &c.  The  damned  passing  under  the  first  bridge 
leading  to  the  abyss,  are  compared  to  those  who  go  to  St. 
Peter's  at  Rome  :  on  the  wall  of  the  abyss,  to  which  that 
bridge  leads,  appear  giants  resembling  towers,  and  the 


SULLO   SP1R1TO  ANTIPAPALE."       371 

head  of  the  first  seemed  to  Dante  as  the  cupola  of  St. 
Peter's  at  Rome.  But  who  is  the  giant,  whom  Dante  first 
perceived  on  the  wall  of  the  abyss,  where  he  imagined  he 
saw  many  towers  ?  Who  is  he  whose  head  seemed  like 
"  the  cupola  of  St.  Peter's  ?  "  He  is  Nimrod,  the  builder 
of  the  tower  of  Babylon.  "  Hie  turrificus  simul  et  terri- 
ficus  Neinroth,  turres  in  novissima  Babylone  construens." 
So  speaks  Petrarch  of  the  Roman  Court,  which  sometimes 
lie  called  Hell,  and  almost  always  Babylon :  for  he  never 
affixes  any  other  date  to  his  confidential  letters,  than 
"  dalla  gemina  Babilonia,"  considering  it  perhaps  as  at 
once  terrestrial  and  infernal :  and  in  his  answer  to  a 
friend,  who  had  expressed  surprise  at  this  bold  indication, 
he  says,  "  Subscriptionibus  epistolarum  mearum  miraris, 
nee  immerito,  non  nisi  geminam  Babyloniam  cum  legeris. 
Desine  immirari.  Et  sua  Babylon  huic  terrarum  tractui 
est ;  a  quibus  condita  incertum,  a  quibus  habitata  notissi- 
mum,  certa  ab  his  a  quibus  jure  optimo  nomen  hoc  possi- 
det.  Hie  Neinroth  potens  in  terra  contra  dominum,  ac 
superbis  turribus  coelum  petens.  Hie  pharetrata  Semira- 
mis  (the  Babylonian  harlot).  Non  hie  Cerberus  horrendus, 
non  imperiosus  Minas  ?  "  —  Ep.  8,  sin.  tit.  Numberless 
writers  of  the  time,  and  even  historians,  were  in  the  habit 
of  calling  the  Papal  Court  by  this  name :  and  it  was  doubt- 
less to  make  more  evident  the  signification  of  this  abyss, 
the  receptacle  of  waters  springing  from  one  "  che  Roma 
guarda,"  that  Dante  placed  in  the  first  rank  there  the 
builder  of  the  tower  of  Babylon,  whose  head  appeared  to 
him  long  and  bulky,  like  the  dome  of  St.  Peter's. — 
Cap.  V.  entitled,  "  Principale  Alley oria  del'  Inferno  di 
Dante." 


372    PROF.  ROSSETTI'S  "  D1SQU1SIZION1 

Our  next  extract  relates  to  the  scene  of  the 
chariot.  It  is  taken  from  the  eleventh  chapter 
of  Signer  Rossetti's  work,  which  is  headed 
"  Carattere  Dommatico  e  Politico  del  Poema 
di  Dante." 

Dante  has  placed  nearly  in  the  middle  of  his  Comedia 
a  majestic  representation,  eminent  above  the  rest,  and 
standing  out  in  clear  light,  like  an  obelisk  in  the  centre 
of  a  large  square  ;  into  this  representation  he  has  gathered 
all  the  effect  of  opposing  lights  and  shades,  for  it  partakes 
of  the  Inferno  and  Paradise,  between  which  it  is  situated, 
and  brings  them,  so  to  speak,  into  contact.  This  scene, 
prepared  by  everything  that  has  come  before,  and  illus- 
trated by  every  thing  that  follows,  naturally  arrests  all  the 
attention  of  the  reader,  as  it  concentrated  all  the  art  of  the 
author.  This  scene,  in  short,  presents  to  us  the  heavenly 
Beatrice  in  immediate  opposition  to  the  infernal  Meretrice. 
There  the  virtuous  lady  is  set  over  against  the  abandoned 
woman :  they  meet  as  two  inveterate  enemies,  as  Holiness 
and  Sin.  On  the  right  explanation  of  this  scene  depends 
in  a  great  measnre  the  interpretation  of  the  entire  Co- 
media,  for  this  is  the  secret  knot  in  which  the  principal  mys- 
tery is  enclosed.  We  are  about  to  disentangle  this  hard 
knot,  but  we  shall  not  be  able  to  loosen  it  entirely,  until 
our  labors  are  further  advanced.  We  begin  by  asking, 
Is  that  abandoned  woman  a  real  person  ?  Certainly  not. 
She  is  an  allegorical  figure  of  the  Pope.  Dante  declares 
it,  and  all  agree  in  this.  Shall  we  say  then  that  the  vir- 


SULLO   SPIRITO  ANTIPAPALE."      373 

tuous  lady,  introduced  for  the  sole  purpose  of  contrasting 
with  the  other,  is  to  be  considered  a  real  character?  Sup- 
pose you  had  before  you  a  picture  of  some  great  master : 
such  is  the  wonderful  effect  of  the  mingled  lights  and 
shades,  that  you  yield  to  the  illusion,  and  believe  you  see 
nature  itself.  Afterwards,  when  you  look  again  and  again, 
you  perceive  it  is  a  picture,  and  not  a  reality.  You  see 
that  what  you  considered  shadow  is  only  color  contrived 
to  imitate  shadow,  and  not  the  real  thing.  But  when  you 
have  become  fully  convinced  of  this,  would»it  ever  come 
into  your  head  that  the  light,  beside  the  painted  shadow, 
is  not  itself  the  work  of  art,  but  a  real,  natural  light,  like 
that  of  the  sun  ?  Or  what  degree  of  judgment  should  we 
allow  to  a  critic,  who  should  maintain,  that  of  these  two 
expressions,  the  Iron  Age  and  the  Golden  Age,  one  in- 
deed was  metaphorical  and  denoted  the  depravation  of 
human  society,  with  its  attendant  miseries,  while  the  other 
signified  real  gold,  excavated  from  mines,  and  wrought  by 
workmen?  Yet  how  does  the  case  differ?  In  one  and 
the  same  picture,  Dante  represents  to  us  two  women,  one 
dissolute,  another  immaculate,  each  related  to  the  other 
as  her  opposite.  If  in  the  first  we  have  discovered  the 
Anti-Christ  and  Anti-Caesar,  under  a  generic  name  of 
Babylon  or  its  ruler,  we  ought  at  least  to  presume  that  in 
the  other  is  typified  Christ  and  Caesar,  under  the  generic 
name  of  Jerusalem  or  its  sovereign.  But  let  us  not  trust 
this  presumption  ;  let  us  not  leave  that  best  commentary 
on  Dante,  the  Apocalypse.  Both  these  allegorical  females 
were  taken  from  that  book,  and  the  forms  of  language  with 
which  the  Evangelist  represented  them,  in  order  to  express 


3/4    PROF.  ROSSETTI'S  "  DISQU1S1ZIONI 

their  contrast,  are  nearly  identical  with  those  employed 
by  Dante.  Let  us  examine  the  sacred  text.  "  Veni,  et 
ostendam  tibi  damnationem  Meretricis  magnse,"  &c. — 
Apoc.  xvii.  Here  we  have  the  Meretrice  described  by 
Dante.  "  Veni  et  ostendam  tibi  sponsam  uxorem  Agni," 
&c.  —  Apoc.  xx.  And  here  is  that  very  Beatrice,  whom 
Dante  has  painted  on  the  great  and  lofty  mountain,  where 
he  was  placed  to  behold  her :  here  is  she,  who  descended 
from  heaven  in  all  the  brightness  of  God,  and  "Parata 
sicut  sponsa  *iro  suo,"  &c.,  was  solemnly  hailed,  "  Veni, 
sponsa  de  Libano,"  like  the  mystic  bride  of  Canticles. 
It  is  true  Dante  dared  not  call  her  Jerusalem,  in  open 
language ;  yet  after  his  fashion  he  does  call  her  so,  and 
that  in  more  places  than  one.  Here  is  an  instance.  De- 
scribing himself  «t  the  foot  of  the  lofty  mountain,  on  whose 
summit  he  afterwards  sees  this  Lady-City,  he  tells  us, 

"  Gia  era  il  sole  all'  orizonte  giunto 
Lo  cui  meridian  cerchio  coverchia 
Jerusalem  col  suo  piu  alto  punto."  —  Purg.  11. 

And  the  meridian  circle  in  which  he  found  himself  covers 
with  its  high  point  exactly  the  top  of  that  mountain,  on 
which  the  New  Jerusalem  afterwards  revealed  herself, 
and  which  he  indicates  by  this  circumlocution.  Every 
reader  naturally  turns  his  thoughts  to  the  real  Jerusalem 
in  the  arctic  hemisphere,  while  Dante  intends  to  speak  of 
the  figurative  city  in  the  antarctic.  The  antithetical 
spirit,  which  we  shall  find  so  marked  and  constant  in  him, 
led  him  to  place  in  diametrical  opposition  the  old  Jeru- 
salem to  the  New,  "  Faratam,  sicut  sponsam,"  (Purg.  11), 


SULLO   SPIRIT 0  ANTIPAPALE."       375 

as  John  saAV  it  in  the  Spirit.  August  is  her  equipage, 
minutely  described  to  us.  She  advances,  preceded  by  all 
the  books  of  the  Old  Testament,  all  the  Sacraments  per- 
sonified. She  pauses,  surrounded  by  the  four  Gospels 
personified.  She  is  followed  by  the  Acts  of  the  Apostles, 
the  Apostolic  Epistles,  and  the  Apocalypse,  equally  per- 
sonified. Are  these  attendants  of  Beatrice  all  real  per- 
sons ?  No ;  and  yet  you  hear  them,  see  them,  touch  them. 
Let  Dante  alone  —  this  is  his  art.  The  chariot  on  which 
the  blessed  lady  proceeds  is  more  beautiful  than  that  of 
the  sun :  on  the  left  are  the  four  cardinal  virtues,  on  the 
right  the  three  theological  virtues,  all  personified.  But 
the  sacred  chariot  is  suddenly,  by  the  poisonous  breath  of 
the  dragon  rising  from  beneath,  transformed  into  a  seven- 
headed,  ten-horned  monster.  And  lo  !  as  soon  as  the  char- 
iot has  become  an  image  of  the  dragon  Satan,  and  unwor- 
thy of  Beatrice,  there  arises  audaciously,  "  like  a  rock  of 
Babylon,"  the  shameless  Meretrice,  who  dashes  forward 
to  plunge  into  the  forest,  the  opposite  of  that  garden  in 
which  her  rival  remains.  Let  us  reflect  on  this.  The 
heavenly  lady  retains  all  the  venerable  and  august  at- 
tendants with  whom  she  appeared ;  all  the  theological 
and  cardinal  virtues,  all  the  books  of  the  old  and  new 
testament,  all  the  sacraments,  &c.  And  what  does  the 
other  ?  The  thief,  who  stole  away  the  chariot,  without, 
the  holy  books,  without  the  sacraments,  without  the  virtues, 
hurries  away  with  the  beast  on  which  she  sits,  and  with  a 
king  of  the  earth,  her  paramour,  "  Meretrix  magna  cum 
qua  fornicati  sunt  reges  terrae."  In  short  her  possessions  are 
all  infernal,  not  heavenly.  Now,  when  we  know  that  this 


376    PROF.  ROSSETTI'S  "  DISQUIS1ZIONI 

abandoned  creature  is  a  symbol  of  Babylon  and  its  ruler, 
•we  are  forced  to  exclaim  —  What  a  dark  idea  of  the  Pope 
possessed  the  imagination  of  Dante  ?  A  Pope  destitute  of 
all  that  properly  constitutes  a  Pope  !  A  Pope  without  holy 
books,  without  sacraments,  without  cardinal  and  other  vir- 
tues. Can  we  think  that  Dante  held  such  a  phantom  to  be 
a  true  Pope  ?  But  if  not,  who  was,  in  his  mind,  the  true 
Pontiff  ?  Since  it  is  evident  that  in  these  two  women  the 
Ghibelline  poet  meant  to  represent  a  contrast  of  extremes, 
and  as  it  were  the  highest  good  and  the  highest  evil  person- 
ified, we  may  substitute  for  these  apocalyptic  ladies  the  two 
apocalyptic  ages,  the  wretched  age  of  impious  Babylon, 
and  the  happy  age  of  holy  Jerusalem ;  or  otherwise,  the 
age  of  gold  and  that  of  iron,  which  do  not  differ  from  the 
Babylonish  time  and  its  opposite.  The  age  of  gold  includes 
in  itself  all  perfection,  as  well  doctrinal  as  political,  that  is 
a  pure  worship  and  a  rightful  government ;  which  to  a 
Ghibelline  implied  the  beatitudes  imparted  by  an  excellent 
Emperor  and  an  excellent  Pontiff.  The  age  of  iron  is  diamet- 
rically opposed  to  the  other  in  both  respects.  Having  es- 
tablished this,  we  are  at  liberty  to  say  that  this  golden  age, 
expressed  as  the  Lady  of  Blessing,  or  Lady  Beatrice,  pro- 
duces the  two  beatitudes  which  are  the  objects  of  human 
aspiration,  that  of  mortal  life  and  that  of  immortal,  in  such 
completeness,  that  we  are  put  in  possession  of  a  terrestrial 
Paradise  here,  and  a  celestial  Paradise  hereafter.  She  will 
make  us  attain  the  earthly  blessedness,  by  means  of  the 
moral  and  intellectual  virtues,  called  cardinal,  as  a  good 
Emperor  ought  to  do.  She  will  make  us  attain  the  heav- 
enly blessedness,  by  means  of  the  holy  Christian  virtues, 


SULLO  SPIRITO  ANTIPAPALE."        377 

called  theological,  as  a  good  Pontiff  ought  to  do.  But  these 
two  abstract  perfections,  reduced  to  one  concrete  figure, 
form  exactly  the  Donna  Beatrice,  who  blesses  by  a  double 
beatitude ;  and  on  this  account  the  poet  placed  the  car- 
dinal virtues  on  her  left,  and  the  theological  on  her  right, 
in  the  picture  he  has  drawn  of  her.  According  to  this 
Analysis,  it  appears  that  the  imaginary  Lady  of  Bless- 
ing, in  whose  eyes  Dante  contemplated  lofty  mysteries, 
"  Or  con  uni  or  con  altri  reggimenti,"  includes  in  herself 
the  temporal  and  spiritual  government,  so  as  to  possess,  we 
repeat,  in  the  same  moment  the  perfect  and  true  essence 
of  an  excellent  Emperor  and  an  excellent  Pope. 

Who  assures  us  then  that  this  interpretation  is  correct  ? 
We  might  answer,  Inductive  Criticism  ;  but  we  will  rather 
say,  Dante  himself.  Let  Dante  come  to  interpret  himself, 
and  let  his  words  be  not  only  heard  but  maturely  consid- 
ered, since  they  are  worthy  of  all  hearing  and  considera- 
tion. He  has  explained  all  this  in  the  commentary  he 
has  left  us  on  his  poem,  yet  no  one  has  hitherto  under- 
stood him.  "  Duo  igitur  fines  providentia  ilia  inenar- 
rabilis  homini  posuit  intendendos  ;  beatitudinem  scilicet 
hujus  vitas,  quae  in  operatione  propriae  virtutis  consistit, 
et  per  Terrestrem  Paradisum  figuratur ;  et  beatitudinem 
vitse  aeternae,  quae  consistit  in  fruitione  divini  aspectus,  ad 
quam  virtus  propria  accedere.non  potest,  nisi  divino  lu- 
mine  adjuta,  quae  per  Paradisum  Celestem  intelligi  da- 
tur."  Then  having  explained  the  several  functions  of  a 
Pontiff  and  an  Emperor,  as  the  appointed  guides  to  these 
several  beatitudes,  he  continues,  "  Papa  et  Imperator,  cum 
sint  relativa,  reduci  habebunt  ad  aliquod  Unum,  in  quo 


378    PROF.  ROSSETTPS  " DISQUISIZIONI 

reperiatur  iste  respectus  superpositionis  absque  differen- 
tialibus  aliis."  —  De  Monarch,  sub  Jin.  And  he  has  re- 
duced them  to  one,  "  in  quantum  homines,"  not  taking  into 
account  at  present  the  Holy  Trinity,  which,  by  his  own 
confession,  is  also  included  in  the  Lady  of  Blessing,  but 
only  the  Emperor  and  the  Pope.  Let  us  reflect  on 
this. 

We  know  from  history  that  the  Patarini  were  in  the 
habit  of  charging  the  Pope  with  robbery  and  spoliation 
of  the  Church  of  Christ.  We  know  that  the  Ghibellines 
accused  him  of  having  stolen  and  usurped  the  seat  of 
Caesar.  Dante  exhibits  to  us  an  allegorical  representa- 
tion, in  which  the  Meretrice  steals  from  Beatrice  the 
"  divine  and  august "  chariot,  bearing  the  characters  of 
that  Christian  Church,  and  that  Imperial  Throne.  If, 
after  this  evident  allegory,  any  one  persists  in  saying  that 
this  Lady  of  Blessing  is  not  such  as  analysis  demonstrates, 
but  really  and  truly  Madonna  Beatrice  Portinari  of  Flor- 
ence, daughter  of  Messer  Folco  Portinari,  a  Florentine, 
and  wife  of  Messer  Simone  de'  Bardi,  a  Florentine,  we 
are  entitled  to  ask  in  what  chronicle  it  is  recorded  for  our 
instruction,  that  the  Pope  stole  the  Church  and  Empire 
from  the  daughter  of  Messer  Folco,  the  wife  of  Messer 
Simone.  What  does  Dante  call  the  Empire,  deprived  of 
its  Emperor? 

"  Nave  senza  nocchiero  in  gran  tempesta."  —  Purg.  vi. 
What  does  he  call  the  chariot,  deprived  of  Beatrice  ? 

"  Nave  in  fortuna 
Vinta  dell'  onde,  or  da  poggio,  or  da  orso."  —  Purg.  xxx. 


SULLO  SPIRITO  ANTIPAPALE."       379 

What  comparison  does  he  apply  to  Beatrice  ?  He  likens 
her  to  the  admiral  of  that  ship.  To  whom  does  he  com- 
pare the  Emperor  ?  To  the  pilot  of  that  ship.  Let  us 
hear  the  two  parallel  similes. 

"  Quale  Ammiraglio  che  di  poppa  in  prora 
Vieue  a  veder  la  gente  che  ministra 
Per  gli  alti  legni,  ed  a  ben  far  la  incuora, 
In  su  la  sponda  del  carro  sinistra 
Vidi  la  Douna  che  pria  m'  appario."  —  Purg.  xxx. 

"  Siccome  vedemo  in  una  nave  ehe  diversi  uffici  e  diversi 
fini  a  un  solo  fine  sono  ordinati ;  cosi  e  uno  che  tutti  questi 
fini  ordina,  e  questo  e  il  nocchiero,  alia  cui  boce  tutti  ubbi- 
dir  deono.  Perche  manifestamente  vedere  si  pu6  che  a 
perfezione  dell'  umana  spezie  conviene  uno  essere  quasi 
nocchiero,  che  abbia  irrepugnabile  ufficio  or  commandare. 
E  questo  ufficio  e  per  eccellenza  Imperio  chiamato,  e  chi 
a  questo  ufficio  e  posto  e  chiamato  Imperatore."  In  one, 
the  Emperor  is  a  pilot  giving  orders  to  the  crew,  who  are 
working  the  ship  ;  —  in  the  other,  Beatrice  is  an  admiral, 
encouraging  all  her  men,  from  stern  to  prow  of  the  vessel. 
This  Beatrice  comes  on  in  a  triumphal  car,  resembling 
that  which  Rome  saw  driven  by  Augustus  ;  and  before  her 
is  chanted  the  Virgilian  verse, 

"  Manibus  date  lilia  plenis," 

written  for  the  presumptive  heir  of  the  throne  of  Augustus. 
Towards  this  mystical  Beatrice,  as  the  ultimate  aim  of  his 
mystical  journey,  the  bard  of  the  imperial  Roman  mon- 
arch, Virgil,  conducts  the  bold  Ghibelline,  Dante,  who  has 
told  us  in  his  last  words, 

"  Lustrando  superos  et  Phlegetonta,  jura  monarchic  cecini." 


380    PROF.  ROSSETTI'S  "DISQUJSIZIONI 

If  now  we  turn  to  consider  the  sacred  symbols  of  this  lady, 
we  shall  see  them  in  such  clear  light,  that  even  the  most 
blind  understanding  must  be  struck  with  them.  Here  are 
some.  She  comes  in  triumph  with  a  numerous  attendance 
of  angels,  into  the  terrestrial  paradise,  and  she  is  saluted 
with  the  verse, 

"  Hosanna  benedictus  qui  venis," 

(the  "  filio  David  being  omitted,)  which  was  chanted  be- 
fore Christ  when  he  made  his  triumphant  entry  into  Jeru- 
salem. She  utters  these  words,  "  Modicum  et  non  vide- 
bitis  me,"  the  very  words  of  Christ.  The  angels  sing  to 
her,  "  In  te  Domine  speravi,"  words  addressed  to  Christ. 
She  is  compared,  with  several  wiredrawn  and  far-fetched 
parallelisms,  to  Christ  on  Mount  Tabor,  with  the  three  dis- 
ciples, Peter,  James,  and  John,  and  the  two  prophets, 
Moses  and  Elias.  She  is  compared  again  to  Christ  rais- 
ing the  dead.  She  comes  from  east  to  west  on  the  emblem- 
atic chariot,  an  evident  type  of  the  Church,  which  came 
also  from  east  to  west.  She  is  surrounded  with  all  the 
saintly  company  before  mentioned,  the  biblical  books,  the 
sacraments,  the  virtues,  &c.,  all  which  things  relate  to 
Christ  and  his  religion.  She  is  not  only  declared  to  be 
the  Holy  Trinity,  but  in  particular  is  designated  as  the 
Second  Person.  This  is  the  poet's  method  of  doing  it.  In 
order  to  make  us  comprehend  that  this  allegorical  form  is 
a  male  being  figuratively  transformed  into  a  female,  just 
as  her  opposite  was,  he  gives  her  John  for  a  forerunner, 
also  changed  into  a  woman.  He  tells  us  in  the  Vita  Nuova 
how  he  saw  two  ladies  approach,  one  preceding  the  other. 


SULLO  SP1R1TO  ANTIPAPALE."        381 

Here  are  the  words :  "  The  name  of  this  lady,  the  first 
who  came,  was  Giovanna;  and  soon  after  her  I  saw,  as  I 
looked,  the  admirable  Beatrice  draw  nigh."  Her  name 
Giovauna  is  from  that  John  who  went  before  the  true 
light,  saying,  "  Ego  vox  clamantis  in  deserto."  But  for 
what  Lord  was  the  way  prepared  here,  unless  it  be  Bea- 
trice, whom  this  Giovanna  preceded  ?  Biscioni  makes  a 
judicious  remark  on  this  passage  :  "  Dante  intends  to 
allude  particularly  to  the  office  of  the  Baptist.  We  all 
know  that  St.  John  was  the  precursor  of  the  Incarnate 
Word."  But  if  the  precursor  is  represented  with  a  change 
of  sex,  we  ought  to  infer  a  similar  change  in  the  person 
who  follows :  so  that  Madonna  Giovanna  and  Madonna 
Beatrice  become  the  exact  correspondents  of  the  Holy 
Baptist  and  the  Baptized  Divinity.  Jesus  Christ  is  called 
the  Wisdom  of  God,  and  on  this  account  Dante  paints 
him  as  a  woman  :  but  in  the  course  of  this  painting,  he 
introduces  "  Hosanna,"  &c.,  and  by  various  similitudes 
explains  to  us  that  it  is  the  portrait  of  Christ,  although 
he  cannot  expressly  call  it  such.  In  the  last  analysis  then 
it  appears,  that  these  two  opposed  women,  set  in  direct 
contrast  by  Dante,  are  the  same  he  found  in  the  Apoc- 
alypse, corrupt  Babylon  and  New  Jerusalem.  In  these 
two  figures,  which  shadow  forth,  in  personification,  the 
ideas  of  Good  and  Evil,  two  cities  are  represented  to  us 
with  separate  political  governments :  on  one  side,  Papal 
Rome,  with  its  head  and  its  government,  —  on  the  other, 
Imperial  Rome,  with  its  head  and  government ;  the  same 
object,  that  is,  under  two  aspects,  and  largely  accom- 
panied by  symbols,  characters,  and  indications  just  like 


382    PROF.  ROSSETTI'S  « DISQUISIZ10N1 

the  two  allegorical  women  in  the  Apocalypse.  We  find 
there,  that  in  the  famous  Millennium,  Christ  in  person 
will  be  the  visible  head  of  the  New  Jerusalem,  and  will 
unite  in  himself  the  two  characters  of  Supreme  Ruler  and 
Religious  Head.  Hence  Imperial  Rome,  or  New  Jeru- 
salem, comprehends  all  imaginable  excellence ;  because 
Christ  will,  in  person,  produce  there  the  two  beatitudes : 
first  the  earthly,  and  then  the  heavenly,  imaged  in  the 
terrestrial  and  celestial  Paradise.  It  is  easy  for  any  one 
to  perceive  who  such  a  figurative  Christ  would  be  for  the 
Ghibellines,  and  whom  they  would  expect  to  take  upon 
him  spiritual  and  temporal  rule,  for  the  purpose  of  re- 
deeming the  human  race  from  the  double  slavery  of  Anti- 
Christ  and  Satan,  the  perverters  of  the  Empire  and  the 
Church.  It  is  evident,  therefore,  for  what  reason  the  two 
characters  are  united  in  Beatrice,  who  constitutes  the 
"  aliqua  substantia  in  qua  Papa  et  Imperator  habent  re- 
duci  ad  unum."  The  very  same  expression  is  actually 
applied  to  a  Roman  Emperor  in  the  poem, 

"  Una  Sostanza, 
"  Sopra  la  qual  doppio  lume  s'addua."  —  Parad.  vii. 

Throughout  we  have  the  same  two  opposite  parties  ex- 
pressed in  various  figures :  Papal  Rome  and  Imperial 
Rome ;  or  Babylon  the  unholy,  with  Anti-Christ,  and  his 
wicked,  anarchical,  miserable  people  ;  and  Jerusalem,  with 
Christ,  and  his  virtuous,  peaceable,  happy  people.  Hence 
the  denominations  of  False  City  and  True  City ;  City  of 
Evil  Living,  and  City  of  Holy  Living ;  or,  more  briefly, 
City  of  Death,  and  City  of  Life.  These  two  opposites 


SULLO  SPIR1TO  ANTIPAPALE."       383 

again,  taken  as  persons,  became,  in  Dante's  apocalyptic 
poem,  Meretrice  and  Beatrice,  because  the  Apocalypse 
had  represented  them  as  two  women.  Hence  two  kinds 
of  love,  the  bad  and  the  good  ;  and  two  classes  of  lovers, 
the  wicked  paramours  of  impious  Babylon,  and  the  holy 
lovers  of  Beatrice-Jerusalem.  Also,  as  in  the  Apocalypse, 
Babylon  is  called  the  "  habitation  of  devils,"  the  receptacle 
of  every  unclean  spirit ;  and  New  Jerusalem  is  shown  as  the 
dwelling-place  of  angels,  the  abode  of  every  pure  spirit ; 
so,  in  the  poem  of  Dante,  these  two  cities,  or  Papal  and 
Imperial  Rome,  became  Hell,  with  a  tri-une  Lucifer,  and 
devils  and  damned  spirits ;  Paradise,  with  a  tri-urffe  God, 
and  angels  and  blessed  spirits.  We  have  already  seen 
how  full  of  allusions  to  Papal  Rome  is  the  Inferno  of 
Dante  ;  we  shall  see,  in  its  turn,  that  there  are  at  least  as 
many  in  the  Paradiso  to  Imperial  Rome. 

Our  readers  have  now  a  tolerable  notion  of 
the  Professor's  mode  of  argument.  It  is  impos- 
sible, we  think,  to  deny  the  praise  of  great  in- 
genuity to  the  passages  we  have  just  cited. 
The  justice  of  some  of  his  remarks  is  suffi- 
ciently obvious.  That  there  is  much  allegory 
in  the  Divina  Comedia  no  one  can  be  hardy 
enough  to  controvert,  after  the  express  asser- 
tion of  the  poet  himself. 

"  0  voi  ch'  avete  gl'  intelletti  sani, 
Mirate  la  dottrina,  che  s'  asconde 
Sotto  il  velame  degli  versi  strani." 


384    PROF.  ROSSETTPS  « DISQUISIZIONI 

The  only  questions  then  are,  What  is  the 
character  of  the  allegorical  part  ?  and  what  is 
its  extent  ?  Here  again  the  first  of  these 
questions  seems  to  be  answered  by  Dante  him- 
self. In  his  Epistle  to  Can  Grande,  he  says, 
"  Sciendum  est  quod  istius  operis  (poematis  sc.) 
non  est .  simplex  sensus  ;  immo  dici  potest  poly- 
sensum,  hoc  est,  plurium  sensuum.  Nam  pri- 
mus sensus  est  quod  habetur  per  litteram,  alius 
est  qui  habetur  per  significata  per  litteram. 
Et  primus  dicitur  litteralis,  secundus  vero  alle- 
goricus.  His  visis  manifestum  est  quod  duplex 
oportet  esse  subjectum  circa  quod  currant  alterni 
sensus.  Et  ideo  videndum  est  de  subjecto  hujus 
operis,  prout  ad  litteram  accipitur;  deinde  de 
subjecto,  prout  allegorice  sententiatur.  Est  ergo 
subjectum  totius,  literaliter  tantum  accepti,  sta- 
tus animarum  post  mortem.  Si  vero  accipiatur 
ex  istis  verbis,  colligere  potes,  quod,  secundum 
allegoricum  sensum,  poeta  agit  de  Inferno  isto, 
in  quo,  peregrinando  ut  viatores,  mereri  et  de- 
mereri  possumus.  Si  vero  accipiatur  opus  alle- 
gorice, subjectum  est  homo,  prout,  merendo  et 
demerendo,  per  arbitrii  libertatem,  Justitiae  pre- 
mianti  et  punienti  obnoxius  est."  Does  it  not 
appear  from  this  simple  statement,  that  the  prin- 


SULLO  SPIRITO  ANTIPAPALE."      385 

cipal  allegory  in  the  Commedia  is  of  a  moral 
nature,  representing  the  struggles  of  man  with 
himself,  the  wretched  condition  to  which  his 
vices  condemn  him,  the  glorious  difficulties 
which  attend  his  ascent  upon  the  mountain  of 
virtue,  and  that  perfect  peace  which,  when  the 
good  fight  has  been  fought,  awaits  the  religious 
mind  in  the  enjoyment  of  unlimited  love  to- 
wards God  and  man  ?  Rossetti,  however,  who 
thinks  a  man  cunning  in  direct  proportion  to  the 
openness  of  his  language,  believes  this  very  pas- 
sage to  be  written  in  gergo !  and  to  contain  for 
adepts  a  declaration  that  Italy  and  the  Imperial 
court  are  the  real  subjects  of  the  poem.  By 
this  scheme  of  interpretation  anything  may  be 
made  of  anything :  we  continue  to  adhere  to 
the  plain  words  of  Dante,  although  we  by  no 
means  contend  that  there  may  not  be  several 
partial  allegories  of  a  political  complexion  scat- 
tered through  the  poem,  as  the  "  Polysensum  " 
seems  to  intimate,  and  as  Signer  Rossetti's  book 
has,  we  confess,  made  appear  more  probable  to  us 
than  before.  The  second  question,  What  is  the 
extent  of  allegory  in  Dante  ?  answers  itself  for 
those  possessed  of  poetical  feeling.*  Moral  and 

*  Lest  the  exclusion  of  Signor  Rossetti  from  this  number  should 
seem  harsh  to  any  reader  of  these  remarks,  who  has  not  also  read 
25 


386     PROF.  ROSSETTI'S  "  DISQUIS1ZIONI 

political  ideas,  however  they  may  have  contrib- 
uted to  the  first  formation  of  the  plan  in  Dante's 
understanding,  however  much  they  may  have 
strengthened  his  purpose  and  animated  his  feel- 
ings towards  the  execution  of  it,  yet  would  assur- 
edly not  have  been  permitted  to  encroach  on  the 
ground  already  consecrated  to  the  free  activity 
of  his  imagination,  and  the  deep  tenderness  of 
his  affections.  If  Signer  Rossetti  were  to  write 
a  poem,  he  would  no  doubt  remind  us,  in 
every  line,  of  some  interior  meaning,  because 
that  meaning  would  never  be  absent  from  his 
thoughts.  The  poetry  would  be  to  him  an  in- 
significant mask,  and  to  indulge  any  feeling  for 

his  book,  we  feel  bound  to  mention  an  emendation  of  Petrarch  pro- 
posed by  that  gentleman,  which,  we  think,  will  set  the  matter  be- 
yond doubt.  Having  got  some  strange  crotchet  into  his  head 
about  " Luce"  being  a  sacred  word  among  the  sectarians,  he  pro- 
poses to  alter  the  well-known  line, 

"  Ove  il  bel  volto  di  Madonna  luce," 

into  Ov'  e  il  bel  volto  di  Madonna  Luce;  literally,  "where  the 
pretty  face  of  Mrs.  Light  is! "  After  this  specimen,  it  is  useless 
to  quote  his  obstinate  preference  of  the  prosaic  and  indeed  ridicu- 
lous reading,  "  porta  i  jlori  "  in  Dante's  noble  description  of  the 
tempestuous  wind.  He  takes  no  sort  of  notice  of  the  imitated 
passage  in  Ariosto,  where  we  never  heard  of  "  fieri  "  having  been 
suggested  by  any  commentator.  The  alteration,  "  Pap'  e  Satan, 
Pap'  e  Satan,  Aleppe,"  does  violence  to  the  language  no  less  than 
to  the  poetry.  Besides,  it  was  useless  even  for  his  own  purpose. 


SULLO   SPIRITO  ANTIPAPALE."        387 

it,  considered  apart  from  its  prosaic  object,  would 
be  in  his  opinion  a  ridiculous  folly  !  But  widely 
different  is  the  method  of  creative  minds.  Their 
vision  reaches  far,  and  embraces  all  objects  with- 
in their  horizon,  without  ever  passing  over  those 
in  their  immediate  neighborhood.  To  every 
man,  worthy  the  name  of  poet,  the  first  ob- 
ject is  always  the  Beautiful.  No  allegory, 
however  wise  and  profound,  can  distract  him 
from  it.  He  may  study  such  meanings  as  a 
diversion,  a  piece  of  by-play  ;  but  they  never 
interfere  with  the  grand  purpose  to  which  his 
"  spiritual  agents  are  bent  up."  They  are  lim- 
ited then,  not  by  speculations  about  the  pros- 
pects of  any  party,  Guelf  or  Ghibelline,  but  by 
the  poet's  own  sense  of  harmonious  fitness,  that 
inward  testimony,  which  affords  to  creative  in- 
tellects a  support  during  their  work  of  thought, 
not  very  dissimilar  from  that  which  conscience 
supplies  to  all  men  in  their  work  of  life. 

If  we  have  been  compelled  to  enter  our  protest 
against  the  uncertainty  and  exclusiveness  of  the 
new  theory,  when  applied  to  the  writings  of  the 
"  gran  padre  Alighier,"  we  must  express  a  still 
more  decided  aversion,  when  it  would  embrace 
the  two  others  of  the  great  Italian  triumvirate. 


388     PROF.   ROSSETTfS  "  DISQU1SIZIONI 

Petrarch,  indeed,  we  are  assured  by  our  un- 
daunted theorist,  affords  a  far  richer  harvest  of 
facts  in  corroboration  of  the  new  doctrine,  than 
his  great  predecessor.  These  riches,  however, 
like  the  rest  of  the  Professor's  wealth,  are  held 
out  rather  to  feed  our  imagination  with  hopes  for 
the  future,  than  to  satisfy  us  in  present  coin.  We 
have  little  doubt  he  may  hereafter  write  a  very 
pretty  Comento  Analitico  on  the  Canzoniere,  but 
we  have  still  less,  that  his  arguments  will  prove 
utterly  invalid  and  sophistical.  At  present  he  has 
given  us  no  sort  of  evidence  that  Petrarch  was 
a  heretic,  and  a  proper  member  of  the  supposed 
Setta.  His  language  indeed,  against  the  Papal 
court,  is  even  more  vehement  than  that  of  Dante  ; 
but  its  virulence  is  unconcealed,  and  far  from  in- 
compatible with  the  severest  notions  of  orthodoxy. 
It  should  be  remembered  too,  although  Signor 
Rossetti  would  have  us  forget  it,  that,  in  almost 
every  instance,  these  denunciations  are  uttered 
against  the  court  of  Avignon,  and  that  the  word 
Babylon,  when  applied  to  that  court,  has  a  pecul- 
iar reference  to  the  Jewish  captivity.  Far  from 
being  a  proof  of  feelings  inimical  to  the  See  of 
Rome,  this  tone  of  indignant  complaint  may  be 
considered  as  fresh  from  the  heart  of  a  pious 


SULLO   SPIR1TO  ANTIPAPALE."        389 

Italian  Catholic.  So  little  does  Petrarch  appear 
to  have  been  judged  for  these  expressions  by  his 
own  contemporaries,  as  Signer  Rossetti  would 
now  judge  him,  that  the  Holy  See  actually  forced 
its  patronage  upon  him,  and  he  was  considered  by 
the  deA-out  of  that  day  as  an  eminent  theologian. 
Yet  his  life  was  open  to  all.  A  frequent  guest 
in  the  palaces  of  the  great ;  a  commissioned  de- 
fender of  the  rights  of  senates  ;  a  correspondent 
of  eminent  men  in  church  and  state  ;  the  friend 
of  Colonna ;  the  advocate  of  Rienzi ;  famous 
throughout  Europe  for  eloquence  and  learning, 
yet  more  than  for  the  poetry  which  has  raised  him 
high  among  the  immortals  ;  with  so  many  eyes 
upon  him,  and  so  many  envious  of  his  fortune, 
he  would  have  been  an  easy  victim,  had  he  dealt 
in  the  secret  manreuvres  which  Signor  Rossetti 
supposes.  We  cannot  consider  a  vague  story 
that  Pope  Innocent  once  suspected  him  of  magic, 
as  carrying  any  weight  in  the  balance  against  the 
immunity  and  even  favor,  so  far  as  he  would  ac- 
cept it,  which  he  enjoyed  under  three  successive 
pontiffs.  Besides,  a  far  more  extensive  alteration 
of  gergo  than  that  which  is  represented  to  have 
taken  place  in  the  time  of  Dante,  would  have 
been  necessary  to  bring  the  sentiments  of  Petrarch 


390    PROF.  ROSSETTl'S  «  D1SQ.UIS1ZION1 

into  community  with  those  of  the  Florentine  Fuo- 
rusciti  of  1311.  The  politics  of  Italy  underwent, 
in  the  fifty  years  that  separated  the  death  of 
Dante  from  that  of  his  successor,  a  revolution  of 
no  slight  moment.  The  Ghibelline  princes  of  the 
North  loosened  or  broke  off  their  connection  with 
the  Imperial  court.  No  one  now  dreamed  of 
universal  monarchy,  vested  in  the  Caesars,  as  a 
panacea  for  all  political  evils.  Least  of  all  would 
Petrarch  give  into  such  a  chimera,  who  considered 
all  Germans  as  "brutal  knaves,""  and  whose 
burst  of  patriotic  indignation  is  so  well  known  : 

"  Ben  provide  Natura  al  nostro  stato, 
Quando  de  1'Alpi  schermo 
Pose  fra  noi,  e  la  Tedesca  rabbia." 

At  one  time,  it  is  true,  Petrarchi  with  the  other 
"  magnanimi  pochi  a  cui  il  ben  piace,"  entertain- 
ed hopes  from  the  promised  intervention  of 
Charles  IV.  His  hortatory  epistle  to  that  sov- 
ereign, entitled  "  De  Pacificanda  Italia,"  is  one 
of  his  best  Latin  compositions.  His  interview 
with  him  at  Mantua,  when,  four  years  after  the 
date  of  that  epistle,  Charles  actually  entered  Ita- 
ly, is  recorded  in  an  eloquent  letter.  A  passage 
in  the  reply  of  Charles  to  Petrarch,  as  quoted 

*  Epist.  sine  tit.  15. 


SULLO  SP1RITO  ANTIPAPALE."        391 

by  De  Sade,  affords  great  cause  of  triumph  to 
Rossetti.  "  En  voyant  tant  d'obstacles,  et  si  peu 
de  forces,  mon  esprit  auroit  hesite,  si  1' Amour,  ce 
puissant  mobile  des  coeurs,  ne  les  avoit  fait  dis- 
paroitre.  L'Amour  s'estassis  sur  mon  charavec 
moi,  en  me  presentant  des  triomphes,  des  cou- 
ronnes,  et  une  place  parmi  les  astres."*  He 
quotes,  in  illustration  of  this,  some  sonnets  and 
canzones,  in  which  obscure  historical  allusions  oc- 
cur, amongst  others  the  famous  "  O  aspettata  in 
ciel  beata  e  bella  Anima,"  addressed,  as  is  com- 
monly said,  to  Jacopo  Colonna,  bishop  of  Lombes, 
Petrarch's  intimate  friend,  but,  according  to  Ros- 
setti, who  takes  not  the  slightest  notice  of  the 
received  opinion,  secretly  designed  for  the  Pontiff 
of  the  Setta  d'Amore.  He  rests  much  on  the 
concluding  lines,  "  che  non  pur  sotto  bende  Alber- 
ga  Amor,  per  cui  si  piagne  e  ride." 

But  leaving  this  trifling  guesswork,  let  us  turii 

*  Is  it  not  reasonable  to  suppose  that  "  Amour,"  in  this  place, 
is  used  only  in  its  general  sense  of  benevolence?  But  if  a  more 
recondite  meaning  is  required,  we  may  plausibly  conjecture  that  an 
allusion  was  intended  to  Petrarch,  as  a  poet  of  Love.  By  that  time 
his  Italian  verses  were  as  much  known,  though  perhaps  hardly  as 
much  admired,  as  his  Latin  compositions.  "  Favola  fu  gran  tem- 
po." And  he  expressly  tells  us  that,  in  his  interview  with  Charles 
at  Mantua,  he  found  that  prince  acquainted  with  the  minutest  cir- 
cumstances of  his  life. 


PROF.  ROSSETTPS  "  D1SQU1S1ZIONI 

to  another  point,  —  the  passion  for  Laura.  We 
are  well  content  to  let  the  whole  question  be 
deeded  by  the  judgment  which  any  candid  man 
would  pronounce  on  this  part  of  it.  Not  only, 
according  to  Rossetti,  Laura  never  existed ;  but 
Petrarch's  grief  for  her  death  is  not  meant  to  be 
grief;  it  is,  on  the  contrary,  a  high  state  of  in- 
ward exultation,  employing  —  Heaven  knows 
why  or  wherefore  —  an  exterior  language  of 
seeming  complaint !  Now  by  this  our  patience  is 
wellnigh  exhausted.  We  have  borne  much  from 
Signor  Rossetti,  but  we  consider  this  as  an  out- 
rage upon  common  sense.  Others  have  doubted 
the  existence  of  Laura;  but  no  one,  however 
dead  to  poetry,  or  inattentive  to  facts,  ever 
dreamed  of  suspecting  a  joyful  intention  in  the 
melancholy  strains  of  the  second  half  of  the  Can- 
zoniere.  For  our  own  parts,  we  agree  with 
Ginguene,  that  in  the  present  state  of  the  ques- 
tion, a  man  must  be  an  immoderate  sceptic,  who 
can  refuse  to  admit  the  personality  of  Laura  as 
au  historical  fact.  If  ever  passion  was  real,  we 
believe  that  was.  It  bears  every  character  and 
note  of  truth.  It  was  peculiar,  certainly ;  some 
peculiarities  attach  to  it  as  incidents  of  the  time, 
and  of  these  we  shall  presently  speak  more  at 


SULLO  SPIR1TO   ANTIPAPALE,"       393 

large ;  some  again,  which  arose  from  the  charac- 
ter of  the  man.  But  if  Love  and  Grief  ever 
spoke  by  a  human  voice,  they  murmured  on  the 
banks  of  Sorga,  and  in  the  "  vie  aspre  e  selvagge  " 
to  \vhich  their  devoted  victim  fled.  The  evidence 
for  this  does  not  rest  on  the  poems  alone,  although, 
to  any  mind,  undebauched  by  the  jargon  of  a 
system,  these  must  carry  the  fullest  conviction. 
We  know  more  of  the  habits,  thoughts,  and  pas- 
sions of  Petrarch,  than  is  our  fortune  with  almost 
any  other  eminent  man  of  modern  times.  His 
letters  are  a  faithful  and  perpetual  record  of  what 
he  felt  and  did.  Even  his  philosophical  works  are 
rich  with  the  history  of  his  own  heart.  He  is  too 
vain,  too  dependent  on  the  affection  of  others,  not 
to  commit  to  writing  the  minutest  turns  in  that 
troubled  stream  of  passion,  which  hurried  him 
onward  from  place  to  place,  from  one  pursuit  to 
another,  until  he  found  at  last  in  the  grave  that 
desired  repose,  which  neither  the  solitudes  of 
Vaucluse  and  Arqua,  nor  the  princely  halls  of  the 
Visconti,  had  been  able  to  bestow.  How  any 
one  can  read  those  numerous  passages  in  his  pri- 
vate correspondence,  in  which  he  speaks  of  Laura, 
without  feeling  the  impossibility  of  his  passion 
having  been  a  political  allegory,  we  cannot  at 


394    PROF.  ROSSETTrS  "DISQUISIZ10NI 

present  understand.  Perhaps  Signer  Rossetti's 
future  writings  may  give  us  some  idea  of  it.  Let 
him  exert  his  abilities  to  discover  the  latent  gergo 
in  such  accents  as  these  :  "  The  day  may  *  perhaps 
come  "  — it  is  Petrarch  speaking  to  one  of  his 
intimate  friends  —  "  when  I  shall  have  calmness 
enough  to  contemplate  all  the  misery  of  my  soul, 
to  examine  my  passion,  not  however  that  I  may 
continue  to  love  her,  but  that  I  may  love  Thee 
alone,  O  my  God  !  But  at  this  day,  how  many 
dangers  have  I  still  to  surmount,  how  many  efforts 
have  I  yet  to  make  !  I  no  longer  love  as  I  did 
love,  but  still  I  love.  I  love  in  spite  of  myself, 
but  I  love  in  lamentations  and  tears.  I  will  hate 
her  —  no  —  I  must  still  love  her."  Let  the 
Professor  tell  us  how  he  imagines  real  love  would 
speak  in  such  circumstances,  and  whether  it 

*  I  use  the  eloquent  translation  given  by  the  author  of  Jacopo 
Ortis,  in  his  excellent  Essays  on  Petrarch.  The  following  passage, 
which  Foscolo  has  quoted  from  a  MS.  sernion  of  a  Dominican  friar, 
must  be  rather  embarrassing  to  Signer  Rossetti:  "  Ma  pur  Messer 
Francesco  Petrarca,  che  e  oggi  vivo,  ebbe  un'  ainante  spirituale 
appellata  Laura:  pero,  poiche  ella  mort,  gl'  e  stato  piii  fedele  che 
mai,  e  a  li  data  tanta  fama,  che  e  la  sempre  nominata,  e  non  morfra 
mai.  E  questo  e  quanto  al  corpo.  Po'  li  ha  fatto  tante  limosiue, 
e  fatte  dire  tante  Messe  e  Oration!  con  tanta  devotione,  che  s'ella 
fosse  la  piii  catjiva  femina  del  mondo  I'avrebbe  tratta  dalle  mani 
del  Diavolo,  benche  si  raxona,  che  la  mori  pur  santa." 


SULLO  SPIRITO  ANTIPAPALE."        395 

could  borrow  a  more  pathetic  tone  than  this,  or 
than  we  hear  in  the  dialogues  with  St.  Augustin, 
which  are  entitled,  "  De  secreto  conflictu  curarum 
mearum." 

The  Professor's  promises  respecting  Boccaccio 
are,  as  usual,  more  abundant  than  his  perform- 
ances. Yet  there  is  some  curious  matter  on  this 
subject.  The  "  Vita  di  Dante  "  is  claimed  for 
the  all-absorbing  gergo ;  by  which  the  addi- 
tional advantage  is  gained  of  being  enabled  to 
reject  its  biographical  authority ;  the  Filocolo 
contains,  we  are  informed,  "  all  the  degrees,  all 
the  proceedings  of  the  ancient  sect,  and  relates 
in  detail  all  its  principal  vicissitudes,  especially 
that  change  of  language,  rendered  necessary  by 
imminent  dangers.  It  is  a  hieroglyphical  com- 
ment on  the  Commedia,  and  a  companion  to  the 
Vita  Nuova."  We  have  not  room  to  give  the 
long  and  intricate  explanation  of  it,  which  our 
readers  will  find  in  the  chapter  "  Pellegrinaggi 
Allegorici,  one  of  the  most  entertaining  in  the 
book.  But  the  Decameron  itself  is  not  secure 
from  this  levelling  theory.  "  Ogni  minimo  rac- 
conto  e  mistero,  e  spesso  ogni  minima  frase  e 
gergo :  lascivie  nella  faccia  esterna,  ma  nell' 
interne  grembo  assai  peggio."  Certainly,  if 


396    PROF.  ROSSETTI'S  «  DISQ U1S1ZIONI 

this  statement  were  correct,  it  might  form  the 
subject  of  a  pretty  problem,  whether  it  were 
more  perilous  to  understand  the  secret  mean- 
ing of  the  Decameron,  or  to  remain  satisfied 
with  the  letter.  Atheism  within,  impurity 
without !  our  morals  are  sadlyin  danger  either 
way.  One  thing  at  least  is  certain,  that  the 
grace  and  delicacy  of  those  exquisite  stories  will 
be  materially  injured  by  a  theory  which  turns 
them  all  into  masonic  text  books.  Perhaps  Sig- 
nor  Rossetti  will  inform  us  in  his  next  edition, 
whether  the  great  plague  itself  was  a  stratagem 
of  the  secret  society.  Laura  did  not  die  of  it ; 
Neifile  and  her  blithe  companions  did  not  fly 
from  its  terrors  ;  why^should  any  body  be  sup- 
posed to  have  suffered,  when  the  easy  alterna- 
tive is  left  us  of  explaining  all  extant  accounts 
into  convenient  gergo  ? 

We  trust  we  have  not  expressed  ourselves 
with  any  disrespect  towards  Signor  Rossetti, 
whose  talents  and  industry  we  freely  acknowl- 
edge, and  from  whose  further  researches  we 
expect  much  amusement  and  some  benefit. 
Whatever  becomes  of  this  theory,  much  curi- 
ous matter  will  be  set  before  us  in  the  course 
of  its  development.  His  example  will  induce 


SULLO   SPIRITO  ANTIPAPALE."       397 

others  to  study  the  great  master,  "  II  Maggior 
Tosco,"  and  to  study  him  with  the  aid  of  those 
best  of  commentators,  the  contemporary  writers. 
The  enthusiastic  ardor,  which  he  shows  in  de- 
fence of  his  favorite  idea,  will  be  appreciated 
by  the  candid  and  sincere,  even  while  their 
cooler  judgment  may  force  them  to  reject  his 
conclusions.  If  indeed  half,  or  one  third  of 
his  abundant  promises  should  ever  be  confirmed 
by  fixture  performances,  it  might  become  rather 
a  difficult  matter  to  make  that  resistance  good. 
But  the  learned  Professor  must  pardon  us,  if 
we  retain  our  scepticism  until  he  has  adduced 
his  proofs.  We  will  yield  to  facts,  but  not  to 
conjectures.  At  present  he  has  given  us  no 
more ;  a  heap  of  odd  coincidences,  and  bewil- 
dering dilemmas,  but  certainly  not  enough  to 
establish  on  a  solid  foundation  the  brilliant  fa- 
bric he  wishes  to  erect.  There  are  two  fatal 
errors  in  the  Professor's  mode  of  reasoning. 
He  sees  his  theory  in  everything ;  and  he  will 
see  no  more  in  anything.  Now,  were  he  to 
establish  to  our  full  conviction  the  principal 
point  of  his  argument,  namely,  that  a  sect  did 
exist  such  as  he  has  described  it,  and  that  the 
great  luminaries  of  modern  civilization  were  ac- 


398     PROF.  ROSSETTI'S  «  DISQUIS1ZIONI 

tive  members  of  that  sect,  it  would  by  no  means 
follow  so  easily  as  he  seems  to  imagine,  that 
they  never  were  guided  by  any  other  motive, 
and  never  used  the  language  of  love  or  of  re- 
ligion in  their  simple  acceptation.  Nothing  ap- 
pears so  absurd  to  him  as  that  a  number  of 
learned  men  should  spend  their  leisure  in  com- 
posing love  poems.  Out  of  pure  kindness  to 
their  memories,  he  brings  various  instances  of 
what  he  considers  their  nonsense  and  ridicu- 
lous exaggerations,  and  asks,  with  a  fine  air  of 
indignation,  how  we  can  refuse  to  admit  a 
theory,  which  elicits  reason  from  that  non- 
sense, and  pares  down  those  exaggerations  to 
a  level  of  ordinary  understanding  ?  Unfortu- 
nately there  are  some  people  still  in  the  world, 
(we  do  not  suppose  we  stand  alone,)  who  are 
inclined  to  prefer  the  nonsense  of  Petrarch  to 
the  reason  of  Rossetti.  The  poems,  whose 
literal  sense  he  assures  us  is  so  unintelligible 
and  preposterous,  have  contrived,  by  no  other 
sense,  to  charm  the  minds  of  many  successive 
generations.  For  our  own  part,  we  confess,  so 
far  from  seeing  anything  inexplicable  in  the  fact, 
that  the  resurgent  literature  of  Europe  bore  a 
peculiar  amatory  character,  we  should  consider 


SULLO  SPIRITO  ANTIPAPALE."       399 

the  absence  of  that  character  a  circumstance 
far  more  unaccountable.  Not  to  insist  on  the 
Teutonic  and  Arabian  elements  of  that  civiliza- 
tion, which  bore  its  first  and  lavish  harvest  on 
the  fields  of  Provence,  sufficient  causes  may  be 
found  in  the  change  of  manners  occasioned  by 
Christianity,  to  explain  the  increased  respect 
for  the  female  character,  which  tempered  pas- 
sion with  reverence,  and  lent  an  ideal  color  to 
the  daily  realities  of  life.  While  women  were 
degraded  from  their  natural  position  in  society, 
it  could  not  be  expected  that  the  passions  which 
regard  them  should  be  in  high  esteem  among 
moralists,  or  should  be  considered  capable  of 
any  philosophical  application.  The  sages  of 
the  ancient  world  despised  *  love  as  a  weakness. 

*  Plato,  it  is  well  known,  inculcated  the  expediency  of  personal 
attachment  as  an  incentive  to  virtue.  He  seems  to  have  seen  clear- 
ly the  impossibility  of  governing  man  otherwise  than  through  his 
affections;  and  the  necessity  of  embodying  our  conceptions  of 
beauty  and  goodness  in  some  object  worthy  of  love.  But  Plato 
had  little  influence  on  social  manners.  Many  admired  his  elo- 
quence, and  many  puzzled  themselves  with  his  metaphysics;  but 
the  peculiarities  of  his  ethical  system  were  not  appreciated  by  the 
two  great  nations  of  antiquity.  His  kingdom  was  not  of  that  world. 
It  began  only  when  the  stone  was  rolled  away  from  the  sepulchre, 
and  the  veil  of  the  temple  was  rent  in  twain.  Platonism  became  the 
natural  ally  of  Christianity.  Not  unjustly  did  the  Old  Fathers 
consider  him  a  "  vox  clamantis  in  deserto;  "  an  Elias  of  the  faith 


400    PROF.  ROSSETTI'S  " DISQUISIZIONI 

Calm  reason,  energetic  will  —  these  alone  could 
make  a  man  sovereign  over  himself;  the  softer 
feelings  were  fit  only  to  make  slaves.  And 
they,  who  thought  so,  thought  well.  The  Stoic 
KaTop0u>fia,  was,  in  those  circumstances,  the  no- 
blest object  of  human  endeavors.  To  it  we 
owe  the  example  of  Rome  among  nations ;  of 
Regulus  and  Cato  among  individuals.  But  with 
Christianity  came  a  new  era.  Human  nature 
was  to  undergo  a  different  development.  A 
Christendom  was  to  succeed  an  empire  ;  and  the 
proud  avrapKeia  of  male  virtues  was  to  be  tempered 
with  feminine  softness.  Women  were  no  long- 

o 

er  obliged  to  step  out  of  the  boundaries  of  their 
sex,  —  to  become  Portias  and  Arrias,  in  order 
to  conciliate  the  admiration  of  the  wise.  They 
appeared  in  their  natural  guise,  simple  and  dig- 
nified, "  As  one  intended  first,  not  after  made 
Occasionally."  This  great  alteration  of  social 
manners  produced  a  corresponding  change  in 
the  tone  of  morality.  The  Church  too  did  its 
utmost  for  the  ladies.  The  calendar  swelled  as 
fast  from  one  sex  as  from  the  other.  Children 

to  come.  In  the  same  spirit  Mr.  Coleridge  has  said,  "  he  is  a  plank 
from  the  wreck  of  Paradise  cast  on  the  shores  of  idolatrous 
Greece." 


SULLO  SPIRITO  ANTIPAPALE."        401 

were  taught  to  look  for  models  of  heroism,  not, 
as  heretofore,  in  the  apathetic  sublimity  of  sui- 
cidal patriots,  but  in  the  virgin  martyrs  whose 
burnings  and  dislocations  constitute  the  most 
interesting  portion  of  legendary  biography. 
The  worship  of  the  Virgin  soon  accustomed 
Catholic  minds  to  contemplate  perfection  in  a 
female  form.  And  what  is  that  worship  itself, 
but  the  exponent  of  a  restless  longing  in  man's 
unsatisfied  soul,  which  must  ever  find  a  personal 
shape,  wherein  to  embody  his  moral  ideas,  and 
will  choose  for  that  shape,  where  he  can,  a  na- 
ture not  too  remote  from  his  own,  but  resem- 
bling in  dissimilitude,  and  flattering  at  once  his 
vanity  by  the  likeness,  and  his  pride  by  the  dif- 
ference ? 

This  opens  upon  us  an  ampler  view  in  which 
this  subject  deserves  to  be  considered,  and  a  re- 
lation still  more  direct  and  close  between  the 
Christian  religion  and  the  passion  of  love. 
What  is  the  distinguishing  character  of  He- 
brew literature,  which  separates  it  by  so  broad 
a  line  of  demarcation  from  that  of  every  an- 
cient people  ?  *  Undoubtedly  the  sentiment  of 

*  It  -would  be  a  prize  of  inestimable  value  to  a  philosopher,  if  we 
possessed  any  monument  of  the  religion  of  the  ancients.    Their 


402    PROF.  ROSSETTI'S  "  DISQUIS1ZIONI 

erotic  devotion  which  pervades  it.  Their  poets 
never  represent  the  Deity,  as  an  impassive  prin- 
ciple, a  mere  organizing  intellect,  removed  at 
infinite  distance  from  human  hopes  and  fears. 
He  is  for  them  a  being  of  like  passions  with 
themselves,  requiring  heart  for  heart,  and  capa- 
ble of  inspiring  affection  because  capable  of 
feeling  and  returning  it.  Awful  indeed  are 
the  thunders  of  his  utterance  and  the  clouds 
that  surround  his  dwelling-place ;  very  terri- 
ble is  the  vengeance  he  executes  on  the  nations 
that  forget  him  ;  but  to  his  chosen  people,  and 
especially  to  the  men  "  after  his  own  heart," 
whom  he  anoints  from  the  midst  of  them,  his 

mythology  we  know.  Their  philosophy  we  know.  But  of  their 
religion  we  are  entirely  ignorant.  The  class  of  believers  at  Rome 
or  Athens  was  not  the  class  of  authors.  The  reverential  Theism  of 
Plato  and  Cicero  was  a  sentiment  much  fainter  than  that  which 
must  have  agitated  a  true  believer  in  the  golden-haired  Apollo,  or 
the  trident-shaking  ruler  of  stormy  seas.  The  recluses  of  Iris  and 
Cybele  must  have  felt  many  of  the  same  passions,  which  ruffle  the 
indifferent  calm  of  a  modern  convent.  What  a  pit}'  that  we  cannot 
compare  the  forms  assumed  by  the  feelings  of  those  idolatrous 
Polytheists,  with  those  presented  in  the  present  day  by  Roman 
Catholic  populations !  We  might  find,  perhaps,  the  same  prayer 
breathed  before  a  crucifix,  which  had  been  uttered  ages  before,  be- 
side the  solitary  fire  of  Vesta;  the  same  doubt  started,  the  same 
struggles  made,  the  same  noble  extravagance  of  human  self-devo- 
tion, the  same  sad  declension  of  human  frailty ! 


SULLO  SPIRITO  ANTIPAPALE."      403 

.''still,  small  voice"  speaks  in  sympathy  and 
loving -kindness.*  Every  Hebrew,  while  his 
breast  glowed  with  patriotic  enthusiasm  at  those 
promises,  which  he  shared  as  one  of  the  favored 
race,  had  a  yet  deeper  source  of  emotion,  from 
which  gushed  perpetually  the  aspirations  of 
prayer  and  thanksgiving.  He  might  consider 
himself  alone  in  the  presence  of  his  God  ;  the 
single  being  to  whom  a  great  revelation  had 
been  made,  and  over  whose  head  an  "  exceed- 
ing weight  of  glory  "  was  suspended.  His  per- 
sonal welfare  was  infinitely  concerned  with  every 
event  that  had  taken  place  in  the  miraculous 
order  of  Providence.  For  him  the  rocks  of 
Horeb  had  trembled,  and  the  waters  of  the  Red 
Sea  were  parted  in  their  course.  The  word 

*  Need  we  recall  to  our  readers  the  solemn  prelude  of  the  Mosaic 
Law,  the  First  and  Great  Commandment,  as  it  was  termed  by  One, 
who  came  to  destroy  in  one  sense,  but  in  another  to  fulfil  and  es- 
tablish that  Law  ?  "  Hear,  0  Israel,  the  Lord  thy  God  is  One  God. 
And  thou  shalt  love  the  Lord  thy  God,  with  all  thy  heart,  and  with 
all  thy  soul,  and  with  all  thy  strength.'1''  These  words  have  made  the 
destiny  of  the  world.  Spoken,  as  they  were,  to  a  barbarous  horde 
in  an  age  before  the  first  dawn  of  Grecian  intellect,  yet  fraught  with 
a  power  over  the  heart  of  man  beyond  the  utmost  reach  of  Grecian 
philosophy,  they  may  be  considered  as  the  greatest  of  miracles,  or, 
to  speak  more  wisely,  as  the  best  manifestation  of  that  Natural 
Order,  in  which  the  moral,  no  less  than  the  material  elements  are 
regulated  and  maintained. 


404    PROF.  ROSSETTPS  "DISQU1SIZIONI 

given  on  Sinai  with  such  solemn  pomp  of  min- 
istration was  given  to  his  own  individual  soul, 
and  brought  him  into  immediate  communion 
with  his  Creator.  That  awful  Being  could 
never  be  put  away  from  him.  He  was  about 
his  path,  and  about  his  bed,  and  knew  all  his 
thoughts  long  before.  Yet  this  tremendous,  en- 
closing presence  was  a  presence  of  love.  It 
was  a  manifold,  everlasting  manifestation  of  one 
deep  feeling,  —  a  desire  for  human  affection. 
Such  a  belief,  while  it  enlisted  even  pride  and 
self-interest  on  the  side  of  piety,  had  a  direct 
tendency  to  excite  the  best  passions  of  our 
nature.  Love  is  not  long  asked  in  vain  from 
generous  dispositions.  A  Being,  never  absent, 
but  standing  beside  the  life  of  each  man  with 
ever  watchful  tenderness,  and  recognized,  though 
invisible,  in  every  blessing  that  befell  them  from 
youth  to  age,  became  naturally  the  object  of 
their  warmest  affections.  Their  belief  in  him 
could  not  exist  without  producing,  as  a  neces- 
sary effect,  that  profound  impression  of  passion- 
ate individual  attachment,  which  in  the  Hebrew 
authors  always  mingles  with  and  vivifies  their 
faith  in  the  Invisible.  All  the  books  of  the  Old 
Testament  are  breathed  upon  by  this  breath 


SULLO   SPIR1TO   ANTIPAPALE."        405 

of  life.  Especially  is  it  to  be  found  in  that 
beautiful  collection,  entitled  the  Psalms  of 
David,  which  remains,  after  some  thousand 
years,  perhaps  the  most  perfect  form  in  which 
the  religious  sentiment  of  man  has  been  em- 
bodied. 

But  what  is  true  of  Judaism  is  yet  more  true 
of  Christianity,  "  matre  pulchra  filia  pulchrior." 
In  addition  to  all  the  characters  of  Hebrew 
Monotheism,  there  exists  in  the  doctrine  of  the 
Cross  a  peculiar  and  inexhaustible  treasure  for 
the  affectionate  feelings.  The  idea  of  the  6eav- 
$PWTTOS,  the  God  whose  goings  forth  have  been 
from  everlasting,  yet  visible  to  men  for  their  re- 
demption as  an  earthly,  temporal  creature,  liv- 
ing, acting,  and  suffering  among  themselves, 
then  (which  is  yet  more  important)  transferring 
to  the  unseen  place  of  his  spiritual  agency  the 
same  humanity  he  wore  on  earth,  so  that  the 
lapse  of  generations  can  in  no  way  affect  the 
conception  of  his  identity  ;  this  is  the  most  pow- 
erful thought  that  ever  addressed  itself  to  a 

_O 

human  imagination.  It  is  the  TOV  O-TW,  which 
alone  was  wanted  to  move  the  world.  Here 
was  solved  at  once  the  great  problem  which  so 
long  had  distressed  the  teachers  of  mankind, 

C> 


406    PROF.  ROSSETTI'S  "  D1SQUIS1ZION1 

how  to  make  virtue  the  object  of  passion,*  and 
to  secure  at  once   the   warmest   enthusiasm   in 

*  It  is  a  thought  for  meditation,  not  for  wonder,  that  the  same 
principle  which  worked  out  the  exaltation  of  human  virtue  into 
a  holiness  of  which  ancient  times  had  no  model,  wrought  like- 
wise a  development  of  human  crime,  equally  unknown  to  antiq- 
uity. The  life  of  Fenelon  was  contemporaneous  with  the  revo- 
cation of  the  Edict  of  Nantes.  In  human  things  pain  ever  borders 
upon  pleasure,  evil  upon  good,  and  the  source  of  one  is  often  the 
source  of  the  other.  The  destiny  of  the  race  must  be  accomplished 
in  no  other  manner  than  the  destiny  of  individuals,  to  whom  good 
never  comes  unmixed.  Sufficient  for  us,  if  that  good  predomi- 
nate; if  the  progress  of  the  species,  as  well  as  of  the  individual, 
be  towards  the  Higher  and  the  Better?  Let  us  not  with  the 
fanatical  Encyclopedists  see  nothing  in  the  Prince  of  Peace,  but 
the  sword  which  he  sent  upon  the  earth.  But  let  us  not,  on  the 
other  side,  with  some  inconsiderate  apologists  of  Revelation,  be 
content  with  the  flimsy  answer,  that  to  ascribe  the  spread  of  in- 
tolerance to  the  spread  of  religion  is  to  confound  use  with  abuse, 
proximity  with  causation.  No  such  confusion  is  made.  The 
question  is  not,  whether  some  precepts  of  the  Christian  legislator 
ar^  not  directly  contravened  by  acts  of  fanatical  oppression.  On 

this  no  doubt  can  exist.    But  the  true  question  is,  whether  there 

• 

are  not  principles  in  human  nature,  which  render  a  system  of 
Monotheism,  especially  such  a  Monotheism  as  the  Christian,  a 
source  of  unavoidable  persecution.  It  seems  to  us  that  this  ques- 
tion must  be  answered  in  the  affirmative.  That  mighty  novelty, 
the  love  of  God,  which  we  have  traced  in  its  beneficial  effects  on 
all  the  virtues,  had  yet  a  separate  tendency  to  enfeeble  some  which 
regard  our  fellow-beings.  That  love,  if  admitted  at  all,  was  by  its 
nature  exclusive  and  absorbing.  Its  object -was  the  Highest,  the 
Only  Reality:  it  required  the  whole  heart;  it  took  the  heart  from 
its  home  on  earth,  to  pillow  it  upon  the  clouds  of  Heaven.  The 


SULLO  SP1RITO  ANTIPAPALE."       407 

the  heart  with  the  clearest  perception  of  right 
and  wrong  in  the  understanding.  The  char-, 

charities  of  father,  husband,  and  child,  were  invigorated  by  it  only 
so  far  as  the  objects  of  these  happened  to  coincide  with  what  was 
considered  a  far  higher  aim.  Even  then,  though  the  act  might  not 
differ,  the  motive  did.  Love  to  God,  said  the  eloquent  preachers, 
is  as  the  gravitation  of  the  planets  to  their  sun :  let  it  once  cease  to 
actuate  the  creature,  and  he  falls  into  erroneous  disorder.  It  must 
be  the  sole,  or  at  least  the  principal  motive  of  every  thought,  and 
word,  and  deed.  But  motives  unexercised  become  naturally  feeble. 
Those  who  would  love  their  neighbor  only  for  the  love  of  God,  if 
they  obeyed  this  difficult  precept,  came  to  love  their  neighbor  not 
at  all.  But  yet  more,  where  these  duties  appeared  contrary,  was 
the  overruling  character  of  the  new  element  perceived.  To  sacri- 
fice the  dearest  affections  to  Christ  was  the  most  sacred  of  obliga- 
tions; and  while  in  some  instances  this  was  done  with  a  bleeding 
heart,  others  perhaps  may  have  made  the  discovery,  that  a  more 
easy  gratification  of  sensibility  was  to  be  found  in  devotion,  than 
in  the  practice  of  an  ordinary,  but  laborious  virtue.  Again,  with 
love  came  jealousy.  The  Heathens  had  no  religious  wars;  fork 
hurt  no  man  that  different  deities  should  be  worshipped  with  dif- 
ferent rites.  But,  under  the  rule  of  One,  rivality  of  worship  was 
an  insult  to  be  avenged  in  blood.  And  Conscience  applauded  the 
promptings  of  Pride.  For  what  were  the  sufferings  of  a  finite 
creature,  in  comparison  with  injury  done  to  the  Host  High?  Here- 
tics were  burned  for  the  pure  and  simple  love  of  God ;  for  it  was 
a  worthier  thing  by  all  the  difference  between  infinite  and  finite, 
to  do  pleasure  to  Him,  than  to  spare  pain  to  a  mortal.  Besides, 
the  flames  that  consumed  the  body  might  save  the  soul;  and 
what  were  the  pangs  of  a  few  minutes  weighed  with  the  bliss  of  an 
immortality?  At  all  events,  they  would  save  the  souls  of  others, 
by  preventing  the  further  diffusion  of  heretical  venom.  What 
therefore  the  love  of  God  imperatively  urged,  and  the  love  of  man 


408    PROF.  ROSSETTPS  "  D1SQU1S1ZION1 

acter  of  the  blessed  Founder  of  our  faith  be- 
came an  abstract  of  morality  to  determine  the 
judgment,  while  at  the  same  time  it  remained 
personal,  and  liable  to  love.  The  written  word 
and  established  church  prevented  a  degeneration 
into  ungoverned  mysticism,  but  the  predominant 
principle  of  vital  religion  always  remained  that 
of  self-sacrifice  to  the  Saviour.  Not  only  the 
higher  divisions  of  moral  duties,  but  the  simple, 
primary  impulses  of  benevolence,  were  subordi- 
nated in  this  new  absorbing  passion.  The  world 
was  loved  "  in  Christ  alone."  The  brethren  were 
members  of  his  mystical  body.  All  the  other 
bonds  that  had  fastened  down  the  Spirit  of  the 
Universe  to  our  narrow  round  of  earth,  were  as 
nothing  in  comparison  to  this  golden  chain  of  suf- 
fering and  self-sacrifice,  which  at  once  riveted 

did  not  restrain,  was  a  most  palpable  duty.  We  have  traced  with 
fidelit}'  the  dark  lines  of  this  picture.  Let  it  teach  us  charity  to 
our  ancestors,  humility  for  ourselves.  The  Reformation  made  an 
end  of  intolerant  principles.  Luther,  who  wished  to  monopolize, 
destroyed  them.  A  Protestant,  uncertain  himself  of  the  truth,  may 
check  his  impulse  to  punish  a  fellow-creature  who  has  a  different 
idea  of  it.  But  it  is  only  perhaps  by  an  illogical  humanity,  that 
a  Roman  Catholic,  believing  in  an  infallible  criterion  of  faith,  apart 
from  which  none  meet  salvation,  can  resist,  at  the  present  day, 
those  conclusions  which  armed  St.  Dominic  against  the  peace  of 
human  society. 


SULLO  SPIR1TO   ANTIPAPALE."       409 

the  heart  of  man  to  one,  who,  like  himself,  was 
acquainted  with  grief.  Pain  is  the  deepest  thing 
we  have  in  our  nature,  and  union  through  pain 
has  always  seemed  more  real  and  more  holy  than 
any  other.  It  is  easy  to  perceive  how  these  ideas 
reign  in  the  early  Christian  books,  and  how  they 
continued  to  develop  and  strengthen  themselves 
in  the  rising  institutions  of  the  Church.  The 
monastic  spirit  was  the  principal  emanation  from 
them  ;  *  but  the  same  influence,  though  less  appar- 
ent, was  busily  circulating  through  the  organiza- 
tion of  social  life.*  Who  can  read  the  eloquent  com- 

*  Especially  as  seen  in  its  effects  upon  women.  The  Spouses  of 
Christ  were  not  so  in  metaphor  alone.  Often  they  literally  fell  in 
lave  with  the  object  of  their  worship.  Voluntarily  immured  from 
the  sources  of  domestic  affection,  their  hearts  opened  with  glad 
surprise  to  a  new  and  unsuspected  substitute.  The  sexual  com- 
plexion which  distinguishes  the  writings  of  the  female  mystics, 
might  lead  us  to  hazard  a  conjecture,  <hat  the  adoration  of  the 
Virgin  arose,  in  the  minds  of  the  other  sex,  as  a  natural  counter- 
poise in  feeling  to  this  passionate  adoration  of  the  Redeemer.  It 
might  be  curious,  in  this  point  of  view,  to  compare  the  writings  of 
St.  Bernard  with  those  of  St.  Teresa  on  one  side,  and  with  the 
Platonic  love-poems  on  the  other. 

t  Pascal,  the  most  successful  of  those  reasoners  who  have  at- 
tempted to  establish  the  divine  origin  of  Christianity  on  its  con- 
formity to  the  human  character,  endeavored,  with  almost  unex- 
ampled heroism,  to  set  his  conduct  in  exact  accordance  with  his 
principles.  His  constant  struggle,  therefore,  was  to  hate  himself, 


410     PROF.  ROSSETTFS  «  DISQUISIZ10NI 

positions  of  Augustin,  without  being  struck  by  their 
complexion  of  ardent  passion,  tempered,  indeed, 

and  to  do  good  from  no  motive  of  affection  towards  bis  neighbor. 
God,  he  thought,  was  the  only  end  of  a  rational  creature:  all 
other  aims  were  abominable,  because  contrary  to  nature.  Con- 
sistently with  these  opinions,  he  sought  to  detach  his  friends  and 
relations  from  himself.  "  Je  ne  suis  la  fin  de  personne,"  he  would 
say,  "il  est  injuste  qu'on  s'attache  &  moi."  A  society  established 
on  such  grounds  appeared  to  him  the  ideal  commonwealth,  to 
which  man  ought  to  tend,  and  in  proportion  to  his  attainment  of 
which,  his  happiness  would  increase.  It  would  be,  in  short,  heav- 
en; and,  it  must  be  confessed,  nothing  could  be  more  unlike  earth. 
In  considering  the  life  of  this  extraordinary  man,  we  should  not 
forget  that  since  his  accident  at  the  Pont  de  Neuilly,  he  was  sub- 
ject to  perpetual  delusions  of  sight.  Always,  whether  he  sat  or 
walked,  he  saw,  j'awning  at  his  side,  the  gulf  from  which  he. had 
escaped.  From  a  brain  so  overwrought,  an  imagination  so  con- 
stantly and  gloomily  excited,  one  would  hardly  expect  a  strong 
development  of  intellect.  Yet  in  that  time,  and  no  other,  he  pro- 
duced the  Pense'es  and  the  Lettres  Provinciales.  Well  might  he 
exclaim,  "  Quelle  chimere  que  1'homme!  "  Is  it  to  mock  us  that 
reason  and  frenzy  go  hand  in  hand ;  sentiments  the  most  glorious, 
with  consequences  the  most  fatal?  Consider  the  life  of  Luther. 
Is  it  intelligible  except  on  the  supposition  of  frequent  insanity  ? 
Yet  to  what  heights  of  mind  did  Luther  reach !  Who  has  agitated 
so  powerfully  the  intellects  of  generations  beyond  him !  "  AVEV 
fiaviof,"  said  Plato,  "  ovdeif  noirjTTis."  The  experience  of  more 
than  two  thousand  years  since  his  day,  might  almost  warrant  aa 
enlargement  of  that  aphorism  into  a  paradox,  which  perhaps,  ac- 
cording to  F.  Schlegel's  definition  of  paradoxes,  may  be  only  a 
"startling  truth:"  that  without  madness  none  has-e  been  truly 
great.  Sober  judgments  achieve  no  victories;  they  are  the  pio- 
neers of  conquering  minds. 


SULLO  SPIRITO  ANTIPAPALE."        411 

and  supported  by  the  utmost  keenness  of  intellect? 
At  a  later  period  in  Church  history,  when  relio-- 
ion  began  to  languish  under  the  pompous  corrup- 
tions of  the  Romish  schoolmen,  a  refuge  was  af- 
forded it  by  those  writers  denominated  Mystics, 
who  seem  to  have  prepared  the  general  Refor- 
mation, which  they  wanted  courage  to  accom- 
plish. 

Their  works  are  now  generally  neglected, 
although  remarkable  for  much  curious  observa- 
tion of  the  turns  and  courses  of  feeling.  One 

-  O 

of  them,  however,  the  celebrated  Imitation  of 
Christ,  by  Thomas  a  Kempis,  has  escaped  the 
fate  of  the  rest ;  and  a  perusal  of  it  will  be  suffi- 
cient to  convince  us  that  the  influence  of  Chris- 
tianity, in  elevating  the  idea  of  love  to  the 
position  it  occupied  at  the  dawn  of  our  new 
civilization,  was  not  merely  indirect  or  collateral. 
A  passion  from  which  religion  had  condescended 
to  borrow  her  most  solemn  phrases,  her  sublimest 
hopes,  and  her  most  mysterious  modes  of  opera- 
tion, could  not  fail  of  acquiring  new  dignity  in 
the  eyes  of  Catholic  Christians.  It  was  to  be 
expected  that  in  this,  as  in  all  things,  the  Visible 
would  vindicate  its  rights,  and  the  sentiments 
whose  origin  was  in  the  constitution  of  earthly 


412    PROF.  ROSSETTPS  "  DISQUISIZIONI 

nature,  would  lay  hold  on  an  earthly  object  as 
their  natural  possession.* 

*  Will  it  be  considered  serious  trifling,  if,  in  illustration  of  the 
argument  in  the  text,  we  compare  the  expression  of  religious 
feeling  in  the  mouth  of  Pascal,  "  Mon  ame  ne  peut  souffrir  tout 
ce  qui  n'est  pas  Dieu,"  with  the  expression  of  natural  love,  pre- 
cisely similar,  and  perhaps  borrowed,  which  Voltaire  has  given  to 
Amenaide,  "  Et  je  ne  puis  souffrir  ce  qui  n'est  pas  Tancrede?  " 
The  age  of  Louis  XIV.  might  confirm  our  argument  by  many  more 
important  examples.  Catholicism  was  then  in  an  attitude  of 
defence.  The  trumpets  of  Luther  and  Calvin  had  sent  alarm 
through  the  fortress ;  the  warders  were  at  their  posts,  and  every 
resource  of  warfare  was  in  readiness.  We  can  judge  well,  there- 
fore, of  the  genius  of  the  place.  We  will  but  allude  to  the  cel- 
ebrated controversy  on  "pur  Amour;"  but  we  cannot  resist  an 
inclination  to  quote  a  passage  from  Bossuet,  because  he  was  on 
that  occasion,  as  everybody  knows,  a  rigid  opponent  of  mysticism, 
and  his  authority  is  therefore  the  more  valuable.  "  La  s'entendrait 
la  derniere  consolation  de  1'Amour  Divin,  dans  un  endroit  de 
1'ame  si  profond  et  si  retire',  que  les  sens  n'en  soupconnent  rien, 
tant  il  est  e'loigne'  de  lenr  region:  rnais  pour  s'expliquer  sur 
cette  matiere  il  laud  rait  un  langage  que  le  monde  n'entendrait 
pas." 

But  the  effect,  although  not  immediate,  of  the  Protestant  Ref- 
ormation, was  to  banish  these  expressions  from  the  ordinary 
language  of  theology,  and  to  change  the  tone  of  religious  opinion 
hardly  less  in  Catholic  than  in  Reformed  States*  In  the  latter, 
during  the  course  of  last  century,  religion  began  to  assume  the 
aspect  of  what  may  be  called  Revealed  Deism.  In  their  joy  at 
discarding  superstition  for  a  more  rational  creed,  men  forgot  that 
they  were  substituting  a  weaker  motive  for  a  stronger.  They 
tried  to  satisfy  philosophers  at  the  expense  of  their  kind.  Their 
Christianity  might  be  very  simple  and  rational,  but  it  had  no 


SULLO  SPIRITO  AN  TIP  AP  ALE."      413 

But  we  cannot  anticipate  that  Signor  Rossetti 
will  be  brought  to  acknowledge  this  secondary 
influence  of  Christianity,  since  it  is  evident  he 
ascribes  little  historical  importance  to  its  imme- 
diate operations.  We  cannot  understand  the 
reasonableness  of  a  theory,  which  represents 
religious  feeling  as  less  efficient  in  the  Middle 
Ages  than  we  find  it  at  present.  According  to 
all  analogy  one  might  conjecture,  d  priori,  that  a 
literature,  which  was  the  outgrowth  of  Christian 
civilization,  would  in  its  first  beginnings  be  full 
and  running  over  with  abundant  manifestations 

o 

of  its  origin.  When  the  Christian  feelings  and 
thoughts,  long  familiar  to  men's  inward  bosoms, 

revolutionary  power  on  the  heart.  It  was  not  the  Christianity 
which  changed  the  aspect  of  the  world.  It  was  the  same  mistake 
in  religion  which  is  committed  in  ethics  by  those  exaggerated  Util- 
itarians, who  would  substitute  utility  as  a  motive  of  action  for 
those  primary  aims  implanted  in  us  by  the  wisdom  of  nature. 
But  among  the  English  sectarians,  and  those  of  the  Established 
Clergy  who  are  denominated  Low  Church,  some  of  the  old  spirit 
remained.  Two  energetic  lines  of  our  Calvinistic  poet  indicate,  to 
an  attentive  reader,  the  great  secondary  cause  to  which  we  owe  the 
original  triumph  of  Christianity: 

"  Talk  of  morality !  Thou  bleeding  Lamb, 
The  true  morality  is  love  to  thee." 

In  the  same  spirit,  hundreds  of  years  before,  Augustin  had  summed 
up  his  ethical  system  in  one  sublime  sentence,  "  Beatus  qui  Te 
amat,  et  amicum  in  Te,  et  inimicum  propter  Te  !  " 


414    PROF.  ROSSETTPS  «  D1SQUISIZIONI 

but,  in  the  absence  of  literature,  incapable  of 
permanent  expression,  first  discovered  those  arts 
of  imagination  which,  are  the  natural,  appointed 
exponents  of  our  deeper  emotions,  should  we  not 
expect  a  voice  of  many  songs  would  immediately 
break  forth,  announcing  in  joy  and  power  the 
rise  of  a  new  world  from  that  barbaric  chaos  into 
which  the  old  had  been  resolved  ?  Genius  ever 
nourishes  itself  with  Religion.  A  new  spiritual 
truth  is  a  pearl  of  great  price  to  a  soul  gifted 
with  spiritual  power.  It  is  the  business  of  the 
Poet  to  number,  and  measure,  and  note  down 
every  form  and  fleeting  appearance  of  human 
feeling.  Gladly,  and  with  an  earnest  thankful- 
ness, he  perceives  any  new  chamber  of  the  heart ; 
but  with  what  gratitude,  with  what  exultation, 
with  what  bewilderment  at  these  new  effluences 
of  celestial  knowledge,  must  not  the  Poet  have 
approached  for  the  first  time  that  sacred  ark,  in 
which  the  treasures  of  the  Gospel  had  been 
safely  borne  through  the  diluvial  times  of  North- 
ern domination  ?  And  in  the  pomp  of  Catholic 
superstition,  the  slow  and  solemn  chants,  the 
white-robed  processions,  the  incense,  and  the 
censers,  and  the  golden  baldacchins,  with  ever- 
burning lights,  and  images,  and  pictures,  in 


SULLO  SPIRITO  ANTIPAPALE."        415 

whose  rude  forms  a  prophetic  eye  might  even 
then  discern  the  future  arts  of  Raffaelle  and 
Michelangiolo,  "  Like  the  man's  thought,  hid  in 
the  infant's  brain  ;  "  in  this  ceremonial  worship, 
so  framed  to  attach  the  imagination  and  the 
senses,  was  there  nothing  to  make  a  poet  pause 
and  adore  ?  The  Beautiful  was  everywhere 
around  men,  waiting,  and,  as  it  were,  calling  for 

'  O*  '  '  O 

their  love.  Is  it  wonderful  that  the  call  was 
heard  ?  Is  it  wonderful  that  the  feeling  of  rev- 

O 

erence  for  that  august  name,  the  Church,  —  for 
its  antiquity,  its  endurance,  its  unity,  its  wide- 
spread dominion,  and  yet  more  ample  prospects 
of  indefinite  magnificence,  should,  in  that  day, 
have  been  often  irresistible  in  the  minds  of  im- 
aginative men,  since  even  in  these  latter  times, 
some  are  yet  to  be  found,  who,  induced  by  no 
other  motives,  have  abandoned  the  cold  precincts 
of  a  more  intellectual  creed,  to  fall  down  before 
the  altars  of  their  forefathers,  exclaiming,  "  Sero 
te  amavi,  pulchritude  tarn  antiqua  et  tarn  nova, 
sero  te  amavi !  "  Now,  when  a  learned  Professor 
comes  to  tell  us  that  writings,  apparently  com- 
posed under  the  influence  of  religious  impres- 
sions, are,  in  reality,  composed  in  quite  a  different 
spirit,  and  does  not  at  the  same  time  show  us 


4» 6    PROF.  ROSSETTI'S  " DISQUISIZION1 

other  writings  equal  to  these  in  merit,  but  really 
inspired  by  the  genius  of  Catholicism,  we  are 
constrained  to  tell  him,  "  Quodcunque  ostendi 
mihi  sic,  incredulus  odi."  We  have  before 
us  a  plain  intelligible  cause,  acting  in  a  known 
manner,  and  in  a  direction  made  clear  to  us  by 
experience.  We  have  also  an  effect,  apparently 
adequate  to  that  cause,  and  resembling  the 
effects  we  have  known  produced  by  it,  with  such 
difference,  however,  as  we  should  have  predicted 
from  the  partial  alteration  of  circumstances.  Now 
if  this  effect  be  shown  to  belong  to  some  other 
cause  that  we  never  dreamed  of,  we  are  entitled 
to  ask,  where  then  is  the  result  of  the  first? 
For  that  remains  before  us.  It  cannot  be  got 
rid  of.  We  are  certain  it  has  been  in  action. 
The  traces  of  that  agency  must  exist  somewhere, 
and  from  their  nature  must  be  obvious.  If  the 
Dante  of  the  Divina  Commedia  was  no  Catholic ; 
if  the  Petrarch,  who  mourned  at  Valchiusa, 
never  felt  the  hallowing  force  of  religion ;  if  the 
splendors  of  Romish  worship  never  fascinated 
the  numberless  lovers  of  the  Beautiful,  who  sang 
in  Provence,  Italy,  and  Castile,  where,  we  ask, 
are  those  other  mighty  spirits,  equal  in  worth 
and  power  to  these  we  have  mentioned,  in  whom 


SULLO   SPIRIT 0  ANTIPAPALE."      417 

the  predominant  religion  may  have  exhausted 
its  capacities  of  enlightening  and  exalting?  If 
none  such  can  be  produced  (and  it  is  notorious 
that  none  can),  the  theory  must  be  false,  for  it 
is  inconsistent  with  the  phenomena  it  pretends 
to  explain. 

We  defy  any  man,  of  competent  abilities,  to 
read  the  poems  of 'Dante,  without  a  conviction 
that  he  is  reading  the  works  of  a  religious  poet.* 

*  La  Martine  has  said,  "  this  is  the  age  for  studying  Dante." 
Rossetti  says  the  same;  but  with  how  different  a  meaning!  The 
one  thinks  of  the  Catholic,  the  other  of  the  Patriot.  Rossetti  does 
not  perceive  that  what  he  supposes  to  be  true  of  the  age  of  Dante, 
is  strictly  true  of  the  present,  viz:  that  Italians  judge  of  every- 
thing by  a  political  criterion.  We  have  known  many  able  and 
worthy  Italians,  both  in  exile  and  in  their  own  land,  but  none  who 
could  see  a  yard  out  of  the  atmosphere  of  their  local  liberalism. 
They  talk  of  poetry,  but  they  mean  politics.  This  explains  not 
only  the  fashionable  Dantismo,  but  a  much  more  curious  phenom- 
enon, their  extravagant  admiration  of  Alfieri.  We  once  met  an 
intelligent  Italian,  not  unacquainted  with  the  literature  of  our 
country,  who  expressed  to  us  his  determination  never  to  read 
Shakspeare,  because  he  was  so  firmly  convinced  of  Alfieri's  infin- 
ite superiority  to  every  dramatic  writer  that  had  written  or  could 
write,  that  he  considered  it  loss  of  time  to  peruse  any  other !  We 
are  very  heretical  on  this  subject.  We  agree  with  Mr.  Rose  (Let- 
ters from  the  North  of  Italy),  that  never  did  a  man  set  up  for 
a  poet  with  so  small  a  capital  as  Alfieri.  There  is  some  poetic 
material  in  his  "  Life;  "  but  none  that  we  could  ever  discover  in 
his  plays.  How  much  poetic  genius,  indeed,  can  we  suppose  a 
27 


418     PROF.  ROSSETTI'S  "  D1SQU1S1ZIONI 

The  spirit  of  Catholic  Christianity  breathes  in 
every  line.  The  Ghibelline,  indeed,  hates  the 
Papal  party  and  Papal  usurpations  ;  he  makes  no 
secret  of  it !  no  words  can  express  more  plainly 
or  more  energetically  than  his,  a  just  and  coura- 
geous indignation  against  all  ecclesiastical  tyranny. 
But  the  man  is  a  devout  Catholic,  and  respects 
the  chair  of  the  Apostle,  while  he  denounces 
those  who  sat  upon  it.  The  sword  of  Peter,  not 
the  keys  of  Peter,  is  the  object  of  his  aversion. 
The  same  voice,  he  would  tell  us,  that  said  "  Put 
up  thy  sword,"  in  the  garden  by  the  mount  of 
Olives,  said  also,  "  Tu  es  Petrus,  et  super  hanc 
petram  fundabo  Ecclesiam  meam."  When  Ros- 
setti  would  have  us  believe  that  in  those  fervent 
thoughts,  those  rich  descriptions,  those  deep- 
drawn  aspirations,  which  have  hitherto  been 
thought  to  convey  Dante's  profound  sense  of 
spiritual  things,  there  is  really  nothing  but  a  co- 
vert expression  of  political  projects ;  that  Paradise 
is  not  *  the  sojourn  of  blessed  souls  through  an 

man  to  possess,  who  writes  a  drama  in  French  prose  in  order  to 
translate  it  into  the  verse  of  his  own  language ! 

*  That  reference  to  man's  present  life,  which  Dante  himself 
mentions  (Epist.  to  Can  Delia  Scala),  and  which  we  readily  allow, 
is  not  liable  to  the  objection  here  made.  We  say  this  to  prevent 
cavils.  The  subjects  are  homogeneous,  and  differ  only  in  degree. 


SULLO   SPIRITO  ANTIPAPALE."        419 

eternity  spent  in  the  love  of  God,  but  a  future 
prosperous  condition  of  the  German  Court ;  that 
Hell  is  not  the  awful  place,  where  hope  is  left  for- 
ever by  all  who  enter  therein,  nor  Purgatory  the 
intermediate  world  of  trial,  where  in  purifying 
pains  the  "  spirits  happily  born  "  rejoice  "  to  make 
themselves  beautiful ;  "  but  the  one  is  the  bad 
state  of  Italy  under  a  corrupt  government,  and 
the  other  a  secret  club  at  Florence,  which  looks 
forward  to  the  triumph  of  its  machinations  ;  when 
we  are  called  upon  to  believe  this,  we  cannot  but 
feel  that  not  only  the  dignity  and  magnificence  of 
the  poem  are  materially  lowered  by  such  an  hy- 
pothesis, but  the  very  foundations  of  our  belief  in 
testimony  are  affected.  If  the  Divina  Commedia 
is  the  work  of  a  heretic,  whose  Paradise  was  en- 
tirely limited  to  this  world,  so  may  also  be  the 
Confessions  of  Augustin  or  the  Thoughts  of  Pas- 
cal.* The  former,  indeed,  has  often  struck  us  as 

The  good  man's  hopes  of  heaven  are  but  prolongations  of  his  earthly 
reward.  The  kingdom  within,  that  cometh  not  with  observation, 
contains,  as  it  were  in  germ,  the  kingdom  without,  that  shines  from 
one  part  of  heaven  to  the  other. 

*  Even  in  such  an  extravagance  he  would  not  have  the  merit  of 
originality.  Father  Hardouin,  in  his  posthumous  treatise  "  Athei 
detect!,"  gives  a  long  list  of  atheists,  in  which  the  names  of  Jan- 
senius,  Arnauld,  and  Pascal,  are  conspicuous.  Yet  Hardouin.  like 
Rossetti,  professed  submission  to  the  Catholic  Church,  and  died 


420    PROF.  ROSSETTI'S  "  DISQU1SIZIONI 

bearing  no  little  resemblance  in  spirit  to  the  com- 
positions of  the  Florentine  bard.  In  both  there 
is  a  freshness,  an  admiring  earnestness,  about  their 
expression  of  Christian  ideas,  which  shows  the 
novelty  of  those  ideas  to  the  frame  of  European 
thought.  This  is  indeed  much  more  evident  in 
Augustin,  because  he  wrote  six  centuries  earlier, 
and  wrote  in  Latin,  so  that  the  discrepancy  be- 
tween the  new  wine  and  old  bottles  is  perpetually 
betraying  itself.  The  Ciceronian  language  is  far 
too  effete  a  frame  to  sustain  the  infused  spark  of 

with  all  the  appearance  of  belief.  At  the  close  of  last  century 
the  same  mania  seized  on  two  men,  to  whose  opinions  it  was 
more  conformable,  Marechal  and  Lalande,  one  of  whom  published 
a  Dictionary  of  Atheists,  and  the  other  a  Supplement  to  the  Dic- 
tionary, in  which  Atheism  was  shamelessly  imputed  to  writers  of 
all  sorts,  on  the  most  futile  pretences.  Lalande,  indeed,  carried 
this  so  far,  that  he  inscribed  the  name  of  Delille  for  a  misprint  in 
a  single  line,  and  then  hastened  in  great  glee  to  inform  his  old 
instructor  of  the  discovery  he  had  made.  "  Mon  ami  "  answered 
the  venerable  Poet,  "  il  faut  que  vous  soyez  fou,  pour  voir  dans 
mes  vers  ce  que  je  n'y  ai  jamais  mis,  et  de  ne  pas  voir  dans  le 
ciel  ce  que  tout  le  monde  y  voit."  There  is  a  closer  resemblance 
between  Hardouin  and  Rossetti  than  the  general  extravagance  of 
their  theories.  The  Jesuit  did  not  leave  Dante  alone.  He  saw 
proofs  in  the  Divina  Commedia  that  it  was  not  what  it  appeared. 
But  his  conclusions  were  less  revolutionary  than  those  of  our 
modern  Hardouin.  He  contented  himself  with  ascribing  the 
Commedia  to  some  person  or  persons  unknown;  and  respected  the 
historical  character  of  the  Poet,  while  he  destroyed  the  evidences 
of  his  genius. 


SULLO  SPIRIT 0  ANTIPAPALE."       421 

heavenly  fire.  It  heaves  beneath  those  active 
stirrings  with  the  throes  of  a  convulsive  weak- 

O 

ness.  In  Dante,  on  the  other  hand,  the  form 
and  spirit  perfectly  correspond,  as  if  adapted 
to  each  other  by  pre established  harmony.  But 
in  earnestness  and  apparent  sincerity,  we  know 
not  any  difference  between  the  bishop  of  Hippo 
and  the  exile  of  Ravenna.  If  the  one  is  an  im- 
postor, so  may  be  the  other.  Or  why  stop  there  ? 
Why  not  at  once  startle  the  world  with  the  infor- 
mation, that  theology  has  been  always  a  masonic 
trick  ?  That  the  passions  of  which  we  have  been 
speaking  never  had  any  real  existence,  and  it  is 
therefore  worse  than  useless  to  look  for  their  ef- 
fects ?  There  needs  only  one  bold  application  of 
the  Professor's  principles,  and  the  whole  edifice 
of  religion  comes  crumbling  to  the  ground.  He 
seems  to  consider  that,  in  every  instance,  proba- 
bilities are  against  a  man's  meaning  what  he  says. 
Earnestness,  solemnity,  lofty  thoughts,  sublime 
imaginations,  all  these  should  only  make  us  sus- 
pect mischief,  and  look  out  for  a  hidden  meaning. 
Veracity,  according  to  him,  left  the  earth  with 
Astrsea.  We  do  Signer  Rossetti  the  justice  to 
suppose  he  has  not  maturely  deliberated  on  the 
consequences  to  which  his  principles  conduct  him. 


422     PROF.  ROSSETTI'S  "  D1SQU1SIZIONI 

From  one  passage,  indeed,  in  his  book,  unless  we 
have  mistaken  a  meaning  so  dimly  intimated,*  we 
conjecture  he  holds  ulterior  opinions,  which  he 
thinks  it  imprudent  to  communicate.  But,  al- 
though cautious  enough  to  be  illogical  in  resisting 
the  conclusions  of  his  own  premises,  when  specu- 
lating on  sacred  subjects,  there  is  no  reason  to 
anticipate  any  pause  in  his  devastating  progress 
along  the  fields  of  profane  history.  Already  we 
have  intimations  that  the  later  poets  of  Italy  are 
no  more  exempt  from  his  transforming  powers, 
than  their  predecessors  of  the  fourteenth  century. 
Nor  will  it  surprise  us  to  find  him  quite  at  home 
in  the  territories  of  romance.  Doubtless,  if  he  is 
acquainted  with  the  Spanish  language,  we  shall 
have  valuable  results  of  his  inquiries  in  lhat 
quarter.  Perhaps  our  old  friend,  Don  Quixote, 
may  turn  out  a  disguised  Ghibelline  ;  and  honest 
Sancho  may  be  only  the  knight  himself  in  his 
everyday  countenance,  a  sort  of  exterior  man, 

*  "  Io  stesso  che  per  pertinacia  di  studio  ho  scorto  cio  che  altri 
sapeva  per  communicazione  segreta,  avrei  potuto  io  mai  svelarlo,  se 
fossi  in  Italia  rimaso?  NC  anche  fuori  di  la  avrei  alzato  la  cortina 
del  tutto,  contentanclo  mi  di  sollevarne  un  solo  lembo,  come  gia, 
fatto  avea,  se  necessita  di  difesa  non  mi  avesse  fatto  ardita  la 
mano.  Ma  andero  io  sempre  innanzi '?  No,  Esce  di  sotto  a  un  rtlo 
una  voce  che  grida,  Noli  me  tangere;  ed  io  mi  inchino  e  mi  arrelro." 
—  p.  450. 


SULLO   SPIRITO  ANTIPAPALE."      423 

much  in  the  same  way  as,  we  have  seen,  Laura 
and  Fiammetta  were  only  faces  or  vestments  of 
their  own  lovers.  Many  a  profound  meaning, 
we  doubt  not,  lies  hid  in  the  windmills.  And 
woe  to  those  who  think  the  virago  Maritornes  no 

O 

better  than  she  should  be  ! 

But  we  will  not  take  leave  of  the  ingenious 
Professor  with  a  jest.  We  wish  him  well  in 
his  further  progress.  We  wait  patiently  for 
his  promised  proofs,  and  till  they  appear,  shall 
not  dismiss  our  old  prejudices  on  these  subjects, 
lest  we  find  nothing  in  their  room  but  a  dismal 
void.  Signor  Rossetti  is  very  sensitive  to  criti- 
cism ;  but  we  trust  he  will  believe  our  remarks 
at  least  to  have  been  made  in  fairness  and  love 
of  truth.  He  will  not,  perhaps,  be  the  worse 
for  bearing  in  mind  some  gentle  warnings  we 
have  given.  Let  him  moderate  his  pretensions, 
arid  enlarge  his  views.  He  may  succeed  possi- 
bly in  establishing  the  principle,  hypothetically 
assumed  by  him,  as  a  vera  causa ;  but  that  he 
should  prove  it  to  be  the  sole  or  the  chief  ac- 
tuating principle,  to  which  all  the  historical 
phenomena  in  question  are  to  be  referred,  we 
believe,  for  the  reasons  already  stated,  to  be 
altogether  impossible. 


EXTRACT  FROM  A 

REVIEW  OF  TENNYSON'S  POEMS. 

PUBLISHED  IN  THE  ENGLISHMAN'S  MAGAZINE,  1831. 


IT  is  not  true,  as  the  exclusive  admirers  of 
Mr.  Wordsworth  would  have  it,  that  the  high- 
est species  of  poetry  is  the  reflective ;  it  is  a 
gross  fallacy,  that  because  certain  opinions  are 
acute  or  profound,  the  expression  of  them  by 
the  imagination  must  be  eminently  beautiful. 
Whenever  the  mind  of  the  artist  suffers  itself 
to  be  occupied,  during  its  periods  of  creation, 
by  any  other  predominant  motive  than  the  de- 
sire of  b*eauty,  the  result  is  false  in  art.  Now, 
there  is  undoubtedly  no  reason  why  he  may 
not  find  beauty  in  those  moods  of  emotion, 
which  arise  from  the  combinations  of  reflective 
thought ;  and  it  is  possible  that  he  may  delin- 
eate these  with  fidelity,  and  not  be  led  astray 


REVIEW    OF  TENNYSON'S  POEMS.   425 

by  any  suggestions  of  an  unpoetical  mood.  But 
though  possible,  it  is  hardly  probable :  for  a  man 
whose  reveries  take  a  reasoning  turn,  and  who 
is  accustomed  to  measure  his  ideas  by  their 
logical  relations  rather  than  the  congruity  of 
the  sentiments  to  which  they  refer,  will  be  apt 
to  mistake  the  pleasure  he  has  in  knowing  a 
thing  to  be  true,  for  the  pleasure  he  would  have 
in  knowing  it  to  be  beautiful,  and  so  will  pile 
his  thoughts  in  a  rhetorical  battery,  that  they 
may  convince,  instead  of  letting  them  flow  in 
a  natural  course  of  contemplation,  that  they 
may  enrapture.  It  would  not  be  difficult  to 
show,  by  reference  to  the  most  admired  poems 
of  Wordsworth,  that  he  is  frequently  charge- 
able with  this  error;  and  that  much  has  been 
said  by  him  which  is  good  as  philosophy,  pow- 
erful as  rhetoric,  but  false  as  poetry.  Perhaps 
this  very  distortion  of  the  truth  did  more  in  the 
peculiar  juncture  of  our  literary  affairs  to  enlarge 
and  liberalize  the  genius  of  our  age,  than  could 
have  been  effected  by  a  less  sectarian  temper. 
However  this  may  be,  a  new  school  of  reformers 
soon  began  to  attract  attention,  who,  professing 
the  same  independence  of  immediate  favor,  took 
their  stand  on  a  different  region  of  Parnassus 


426  EXTRACT  FROM  A 

from  that  occupied  by  the  Lakers,*  and  one,  in 
our  opinion,  much  less  liable  to  perturbing  cur- 
rents of  air  from  ungenial  climates.  We  shall 
not  hesitate  to  express  our  conviction,  that  the 
cockney  school  (as  it  was  termed  in  derision 
from  a  cursory  view  of  its  accidental  circum- 
stances) contained  more  genuine  inspiration, 
and  adhered  more  steadily  to  that  portion  of 
truth  which  it  embraced,  than  any  form  of  art 
that  has  existed  in  this  country  since  the  days 
of  Milton.  Their  caposetta  was  Mr.  Leigh  Hunt, 
who  did  little  more  than  point  the  way,  and  was 
diverted  from  his  aim  by  a  thousand  personal  pre- 
dilections and  political  habits  of  thought.  But 
he  was  followed  by  two  men  of  very  superior 
make ;  men  who  were  born  poets,  lived  poets, 
and  went  poets  to  their  untimely  graves.  Shel- 
ley and  Keats  were  indeed  of  opposite  genius ; 
that  of  the  one  was  vast,  impetuous,  and  sub- 
lime, the  other  seemed  to  be  "fed  with  honey 

*  This  cant  term  was  justly  ridiculed  by  Mr.  Wordsworth's  sup- 
porters; but  it  was  not  so  easy  to  substitute  an  inoffensive  denom- 
ination. We  are  not  at  all  events  the  first  who  have  used  it  with- 
out a  contemptuous  intention,  for  we  remember  to  have  heard  a 
disciple  quote  Aristophanes  in  its  behalf:  — '  Ovrof  6v  TUV  jj&a6wv 
ruvtf  uv  bpud'  iftelf  ucl,  aWa  AIMNAIOS.  "  This  is  no  common, 
no  barn-door  fowl :  No,  but  a  Lakist." 


REVIEW  OF   TENNYSON'S  POEMS.   427 

dew,"  and  to  have  "  drunk  the  milk  of  Paradise." 
Even  the  softness  of  Shelley  comes  out  in  bold, 
rapid,  comprehensive  strokes;  he  has  no  pa- 
tience for  minute  beauties,  unless  they  can  be 
massed  into  a  general  effect  of  grandeur.  On 
the  other  hand,  the  tenderness  of  Keats  cannot 
sustain  a  lofty  flight ;  he  does  not  generalize  or 
allegorize  nature  ;  his  imagination  works  with 
few  symbols,  and  reposes  willingly  on  what  is 
given  freely.  Yet  in  this  formal  opposition  of 
character  there  is,  it  seems  to  us,  a  ground- 
work of  similarity  sufficient  for  the  purposes 
of  classification,  and  constituting  a  remarkable 
point  in  the  progress  of  literature.  They  are 
both  poets  of  sensation  rather  than  reflection. 
Susceptible  of  the  slightest  impulse  from  ex- 
ternal nature,  their  fine  organs  trembled  into 
emotion  at  colors,  and  sounds,  and  movements, 
unperceived  or  unregarded  by  duller  tempera- 
ments. Rich  and  clear  were  their  perceptions 
of  visible  forms  ;  full  and  deep  their  feelings  of 
music.  So  vivid  was  the  delight  attending  the 
simple  exertions  of  eye  and  ear,  that  it  became 
minoled  more  and  more  with  their  trains  of  ac- 

o 

tive  thought,  and  tended  to  absorb  their  whole 

&         ' 

being  into  the    energy  of  sense.     Other  poets 


428  EXTRACT  FROM  A 

seek  for  images  to  illustrate  their  conceptions ; 
these  men  had  no  need  to  seek;  they  lived  in 
a  world  of  images  ;  for  the  most  important  and 
extensive  portion  of  their  life  consisted  in  those 
emotions  which  are  immediately  conversant  with 
the  sensation.  Like  the  hero  of  Goethe's  novel, 
they  would  hardly  have  been  affected  by  what 
is  called  the  pathetic  parts  of  a  book  ;  but  the 
merely  beautiful  passages,  "  those  from  which 
the  spirit  of  the  author  looks  clearly  and  mildly 
forth,"  would  have  melted  them  to  tears.  Hence 
they  are  not  descriptive,  they  are  picturesque. 
They  are  not  smooth  and  negatively  harmonious ; 
they  are  full  of  deep  and  varied  melodies.  This 
powerful  tendency  of  imagination  to  a  life  of 
immediate  sympathy  with  the  external  universe, 
is  not  nearly  so  liable  to  false  views  of  art  as 
the  opposite  disposition  of  purely  intellectual 
contemplation.  For  where  beauty  is  constantly 
passing  before  "  that  inward  eye,  which  is  the 
bliss  of  solitude ;  "  where  the  soul  seeks  it  as  a 
perpetual  and  necessary  refreshment  to  the 
sources  of  activity  and  intuition ;  where  all  the 
other  sacred  ideas  of  our  nature,  —  the  idea  of 
good,  the  idea  of  perfection,  the  idea  of  truth, 
are  habitually  contemplated  through  the  medium 


REVIEW  OF  TENNYSON'S  POEMS.    429 

of  this  predominant  mood,  so  that  they  assume 
its  color,  and  are  subject  to  its  peculiar  laws ; 
there  is  little  danger  that  the  ruling  passion  of 
the  whole  mind  will  cease  to  direct  its  creative 
operations,  or  the  energetic  principle  of  love  for 
the  beautiful  sink,  even  for  a  brief  period,  to 
the  level  of  a  mere  notion  in  the  understand- 
ing. We  do  *not  deny  that  it  is,  on  other  ac- 
counts, dangerous  for  frail  humanity  to  linger 
with  fond  attachment  in  the  vicinity  of  sense. 
Minds  of  this  description  are  especially  liable 
to  moral  temptations ;  and  upon  them,  more 
than  any,  it  is  incumbent  to  remember,  that 
their  mission  as  men,  which  they  share  with 
their  fellow-beings,  is  of  infinitely  higher  inter- 
est than  their  mission  as  artists,  which  they  pos- 
sess by  rare  and  exclusive  privilege.  But  it  is 
obvious  that,  critically  speaking,  such  tempta- 
tions are  of  slight  moment.  Not  the  gross  and 
evident  passions  of  our  nature,  but  the  elevated 
and  less  separable  desires,  are  the  dangerous 
enemies  which  misguide  the  poetic  spirit  in  its 
attempts  at  self-cultivation.  That  delicate  sense 
of  fitness  which  grows  with  the  growth  of  artist 
feelings,  and  strengthens  with  their  strength,  un- 
til it  acquires  a  celerity  and  weight  of  decision 


430  EXTRACT  FROM  A 

hardly  inferior  to  the  correspondent  judgments 
of  conscience,  is  weakened  by  every  indul- 
gence of  heterogeneous  aspirations,  however 
pure  they  may  be,  however  lofty,  however  suit- 
able to  human  nature.  We  are  therefore  de- 
cidedly of  opinion  that  the  heights  and  depths 
of  art  are  most  within  the  reach  of  those  who 
have  received  from  nature  the  "  fearful  and  won- 
derful "  constitution  we  have  described,  whose 
poetry  is  a  sort  of  magic,  producing  a  number 
of  impressions,  too  multiplied,  too  minute,  and 
too  diversified  to  allow  of  our  tracing  them  to 
their  causes,  because  just  such  was  the  effect, 
even  so  boundless  and  so  bewildering,  produced 
on  their  imaginations  by  the  real  appearance  of 
nature. '  These  things  being  so,  our  friends  of 
the  new  school  had  evidently  much  reason  to 
recur  to  the  maxim  laid  down  by  Mr.  Words- 
worth, and  to  appeal  from  the  immediate  judg- 
ment of  lettered  or  unlettered  contemporaries 
to  the  decision  of  a  more  equitable  posterity. 
How  should  they  be  popular,  whose  senses  told 
them  a  richer  and  ampler  tale  than  most  men 
could  understand,  and  who  constantly  expressed, 
because  they  constantly  felt,  sentiments  of  ex- 
quisite pleasure  or  pain,  which  most  men  were 


REVIEW   OF  TENNFSON'S  POEMS.    431 

not  permitted  to  experience?  The  public  very 
naturally  derided  them  as  visionaries,  and  gib- 
beted in  terrorem  those  inaccuracies  of  diction 
occasioned  sometimes  by  the  speed  of  their  con- 
ceptions, sometimes  by  the  inadequacy  of  lan- 
guage to  their  peculiar  conditions  of  thought. 
But  it  may  be  asked,  does  not  this  line  of  argu- 
ment prove  too  much  ?  Does  it  not  prove  that 
there  is  a  barrier  between  these  poets  and  all 
other  persons  so  strong  and  immovable,  that, 
as  has  been  said  of  the  Supreme  Essence,  we 
must  be  themselves  before  we  can  understand 
them  in  the  least  ?  Not  only  are  they  not  liable 
to  sudden  and  vulgar  estimation,  but  the  lapse 
of  ages,  it  seems,  will  not  consolidate  their  fame, 
nor  the  suffrages  of  the  wise  few  produce  any 
impression,  however  remote  or  slowly  matured, 
on  the  judgment  of  the  incapacitated  many.  We 
answer,  this  is  not  the  import  of  our  argument. 
Undoubtedly  the  true  poet  addresses  himself,  in 
all  his  conceptions,  to  the  common  nature  of  us 
all.  Art  is  a  lofty  tree,  and  may  shoot  up  far 
beyond  our  grasp,  but  its  roots  are  in  daily  life 
and  experience.  Every  bosom  contains  the  ele- 
ments of  those  complex  emotions  which  the 
artist  feels,  and  every  head  can,  to  a  certain 


432  EXTRACT  FROM  A 

extent,  go  over  in  itself  the  process  of  their  com- 
bination, so  as  to  understand  his  expressions  and 
sympathize  with  his  state.  But  this  requires 
exertion ;  more  or  less,  indeed,  according  to  the 
difference  of  occasion,  but  always  some  degree 
of  exertion.  For  since  the  emotions  of  the  poet, 
during  composition,  follow  a  regular  law  of  as- 
sociation, it  follows  that  to  accompany  their  prog- 
ress up  to  the  harmonious  prospect  of  the  whole, 
and  to  perceive  the  proper  dependence  of  every 
step  on  that  which  preceded,  it  is  absolutely 
necessary  to  start  from  the  same  point,  i.  e.  clearly 
to  apprehend  that  leading  sentiment  of  the  poet's 
mind,  by  their  conformity  to  which  the  host  of 
suggestions  are  arranged.  Now  this  requisite 
exertion  is  not  willingly  made  by  the  large  ma- 
jority of  readers.  It  is  so  easy  to  judge  capri- 
ciously, and  according  to  indolent  impulse  ! 
For  very  many,  therefore,  it  has  become  morally 
impossible  to  attain  the  author's  point  of  vision, 
on  account  of  their  habits,  or  their  prejudices,  or 
their  circumstances ;  but  it  is  never  physically  im- 
possible, because  nature  has  placed  in  every  man 
the  simple  elements,  of  which  art  is  the  sublima- 
tion. Since  then  this  demand  on  the  reader  for 
activity,  when  he  wants  to  peruse  his  author 


REVIEW   OF  TENNYSON'S  POEMS.      433 

in  a  luxurious  passiveness,  is  the  very  thing  that 
moves  his  bile,  it  is  obvious  that  those  writers 
will  be  always  most  popular  who  require  the 
least  degree  of  exertion.  Hence,  whatever  is 
mixed  up  with  art,  and  appears  under  its  sem- 
blance, is  always  more  favorably  regarded  than 
art  free  and  unalloyed.  Hence,  half  the  fash- 
ionable poems  in  the  world  are  mere  rhetoric, 
and  half  the  remainder  are,  perhaps,  not  liked 
by  the  generality  for  their  substantial  merits. 
Hence,  likewise,  of  the  really  pure  composi- 
tions, those  are  most  universally  agreeable  which 
take  for  their  primary  subject  the  usual  passions 
of  the  heart,  and  deal  with  them  in  a  simple 
state,  without  applying  the  transforming  powers 
of  high  imagination.  Love,  friendship,  ambi- 
tion, religion,  &c.,  are  matters  of  daily  experi- 
ence even  amongst  unimaginative  tempers.  The 
forces  of  association,  therefore,  are  ready  to  work 
in  these  directions,  and  little  effort  of  will  is  ne- 
cessary to  follow  the  artist.  For  the  same  rea- 
son, such  subjects  often  excite  a  partial  power 
of  composition,  which  is  no  sign  of  a  truly  poetic 
organization.  We  are  very  far  from  wishing  to 
depreciate  this  class  of  poems,  whose  influence 
is  so  extensive,  and  communicates  so  refined  a 
28 


434  EXTRACT  FROM  A 

pleasure.  We  contend  only  that  the  facility 
with  which  its  impressions  are  communicated 
is  no  proof  of  its  elevation  as  a  form  of  art,  but 
rather  the  contrary.  What,  then,  some  may  be 
ready  to  exclaim,  is  the  pleasure  derived  by  most 
men,  from  Shakspeare,  or  Dante,  or  Homer,  en- 
tirely false  and  factitious?  If  these  are  really 
masters  of  their  art,  must  not  the  energy  re- 
quired of  the  ordinary  intelligences  that  come 
in  contact  with  their  mighty  genius,  be  the  great- 
est possible  ?  How  comes  it  then,  that  they  are 
popular  ?  Shall  we  not  say,  after  all,  that  the  dif- 
ference is  in  the  power  of  the  author,  not  in  the 
tenor  of  his  meditations  ?  Those  eminent  spirits 
find  no  difficulty  in  conveying  to  common  appre- 
hensions their  lofty  sense  and  profound  observa- 
tion of  nature.  They  keep  no  aristocratic  state, 
apart  from  the  sentiments  of  society  at  large  ; 
they  speak  to  the  hearts  of  all,  and  by  the  mag- 
netic force  of  their  conceptions,  elevate  inferior 
intellects  into  a  higher  and  purer  atmosphere. 
The  truth  contained  in  this  observation  is  un- 
doubtedly important ;  geniuses  of  the  most  uni- 
versal order,  and  assigned  by  destiny  to  the  most 
propitious  era  of  a  nation's  literary  development, 
have  a  clearer  and  a  larger  access  to  the  minds 


REVIEW  OF   TENNYSON'S  POEMS.    435 

of  their  compatriots  than  can  ever  open  to  those 
who  are  circumscribed  by  less  fortunate  circum- 
stances. In  the  youthful  periods  of  any  literature 
there  is  an  expansive  and  communicative  tendency 
in  mind,  which  produces  unreservedness  of  com- 
munion, and  reciprocity  of  vigor  between  differ- 
ent orders  of  intelligence.  Without  abandoning 
the  ground  which  has  always  been  defended  by 
the  partisans  of  Mr.  Wordsworth,  who  declare 
with  perfect  truth,  that  the  number  of  real  ad- 
mirers of  what  is  really  admirable  in  Shakspeare 
and  Milton  is  much  fewer  than  the  number  of 
apparent  admirers  might  lead  one  to  imagine, 
we  may  safely  assert  that  the  intense  thoughts 
set  in  circulation  by  those  "  orbs  of  song  "  and 
their  noble  satellites  "  in  great  Eliza's  golden 
time,"  did  not  fail  to  awaken  a  proportionable 
intensity  of  the  natures  of  numberless  auditors. 
Some  might  feel  feebly,  some  strongly ;  the  ef- 
fect would  vary  according  to  the  character  of  the 
recipient ;  but  upon  none  was  the  stirring  in- 
fluence entirely  unimpressive.  The  knowledge 
and  power  thus  imbibed  became  a  part  of  na- 
tional existence ;  it  was  ours  as  Englishmen ; 
and  amid  the  flux  of  generations  and  customs 
we  retain  unimpaired  this  privilege  of  inter- 


436  EXTRACT  FROM  A 

course  with  greatness.  But  the  age  in  which 
we  live  comes  late  in  our  national  progress. 
That  first  raciness  and  juvenile  vigor  of  litera- 
ture, when  nature  "  wantoned  as  in  her  prune, 
and  played  at  will  her  virgin  fancies  "  is  gone 
never  to  return.  Since  that  day  we  have  un- 
dergone a  period  of  degradation.  "  Every  hand- 
icraftsman has  worn  the  mask  of  poesy."  It 
would  be  tedious  to  repeat  the  tale  so  often  re- 
lated of  the  French  contagion  and  the  heresies 
of  the  Popian  school.  With  the  close  of  the 
last  century  came  an  era  of  reaction,  an  era  of 
painful  struggle  to  bring  our  over-civilized  con- 
dition of  thought  into  union  with  the  fresh  pro- 
ductive spirit  that  brightened  the  morning  of 
our  literature.  But  repentance  is  unlike  inno- 
cence ;  the  laborious  endeavor  to  restore,  has 
more  complicated  methods  of  action  than  the 
freedom  of  untainted  nature.  Those  different 
powers  of  poetic  disposition,  the  energies  of  Sen- 
sitive,* of  Reflective,  of  Passionate  Emotion, 

*  We  are  aware  that  this  is  not  the  right  word,  being  appropri- 
ated by  common  use  to  a  different  signification.  Those  who  think 
the  caution  given  by  Csesar  should  not  stand  in  the  way  of  urgent 
occasion,  may  substitute  "sensuous;"  a  word  in  use  amongst  our 
elder  divines,  and  revived  by  a  few  bold  writers  in  our  own 
time. 


REVIEW  OF  TENNYSON'S  POEMS.    437 

which  in  former  times  were  intermingled,  and 
derived  from  mutual  support  an  extensive  em- 
pire over  the  feelings  of  men,  were  now  re- 
strained within  separate  spheres  of  agency.  The 
whole  system  no  longer  worked  harmoniously, 
and  by  intrinsic  harmony  acquired  external  free- 
dom ;  but  there  arose  a  violent  and  unusual 
action  in  the  several  component  functions,  each 
for  itself,  all  striving  to  reproduce  the  regular 
power  which  the  whole  had  once  enjoyed.  Hence 
the  melancholy  which  so  evidently  characterizes 
the  spirit  of  modern  poetry;  hence  that  return 
of  the  mind  upon  itself  and  the  habit  of  seeking 
relief  in  idiosyncrasies  rather  than  community 
of  interest.  In  the  old  times  the  poetic  impulse 
went  along  with  the  general  impulse  of  the  na- 
tion ;  in  these  it  is  a  reaction  against  it,  a  check 
acting  for  conservation  against  a  propulsion  to- 
wards change.  We  have  indeed  seen  it  urged 
in  some  of  our  fashionable  publications,  that  the 
diffusion  of  poetry  must  be  in  the  direct  ratio  of 
the  diffusion  of  machinery,  because  a  highly  civ- 
ilized people  must  have  new  objects  of  interest, 
and  thus  a  new  field  will  be  open  to  description. 
But  this  notable  argument  forgets  that  against 
this  objective  amelioration  may  be  set  the  de- 


438  EXTRACT  FROM  A 

crease  of  subjective  power,  arising  from  a  preva- 
lence of  social  activity,  and  a  continual  absorp- 
tion of  the  higher  feelings  into  the  palpable  in- 
terests of  ordinary  life.  The  French  Revolution 
may  be  a  finer  theme  than  the  war  of  Troy ; 
but  it  does  not  so  evidently  follow  that  Homer 
is  to  find  his  superior.  Our  inference,  therefore, 
from  this  change  in  the  relative  position  of  artists 
to  the  rest  of  the  community  is,  that  modern 
poetry  in  proportion  to  its  depth  and  truth  is 
likely  to  have  little  immediate  authority  over 
public  opinion.  Admirers  it  will  have ;  sects 
consequently  it  will  form  ;  and  these  strong 
under-currents  will  in  time  sensibly  affect  the 
principal  stream.  Those  writers,  whose  genius, 
though  great,  is  not  strictly  and  essentially 
poetic,  become  mediators  between  the  votaries 
of  art  and  the  careless  cravers  for  excitement.* 
Art  herself,  less  manifestly  glorious  than  in  her 
periods  of  undisputed  supremacy,  retains  her 
essential  prerogatives,  and  forgets  not  to  raise 
up  chosen  spirits  who  may  minister  to  her  state 
and  vindicate  her  title. 

#  May  we  not  compare  them  to  the  bright  but  unsubstantial 
clouds  which,  in  still  evenings,  girdle  the  sides  of  lofty  mountains, 
and  seem  to  form  a  natural  connection  between  the  lowly  valleys 
spread  out  beneath,  and  those  isolated  peaks  above  that  hold  the 
"last  parley  with  the  setting  sun?  " 


REVIEW   OF  TENNYSON'S  POEMS.    439 

One  of  the  faithful  Islam,  a  poet  in  the  truest 
and  highest  sense,  we  are  anxious  to  present  to 
our  readers.  He  has  yet  written  little  and  pub- 
lished less ;  but  in  these  "  preludes  of  a  loftier 
strain"  we  recognize  the  inspiring  God.  Mr. 
Tennyson  belongs  decidedly  to  the  class  we  have 
already  described  as  Poets  of  Sensation.  He 
sees  all  the  forms  of  nature  with  the  "  eruditus 
oculus,"  and  his  ear  has  a  fairy  fineness.  There 
is  a  strange  earnestness  in  his  worship  of  beauty 
which  throws  a  charm  over  his  impassioned  song, 
more  easily  felt  than  described,  and  not  to  be 
escaped  by  those  who  have  once  felt  it.  We 
think  he  has  more  definitiveness  and  roundness 
of  general  conception  than  the  late  Mr.  Keats, 
and  is  much  more  free  from  blemishes  of  diction 
and  hasty  capriccios  of  fancy.  He  has  also  this 
advantage  over  that  poet  and  his  friend  Shelley, 
that  he  comes  before  the  public  unconnected  with 
any  political  party  or  peculiar  system  of  opinions. 
Nevertheless,  true  to  the  theory  we  have  stated, 
we  believe  his  participation  in  their  characteristic 
excellences  is  sufficient  to  secure  him  a  share  of 
their  unpopularity.  The  volume  of  "  Poems, 
chiefly  Lyrical,"  does  not  contain  above  154 
pages ;  but  it  shows  us  much  more  of  the  char- 


440  EXTRACT  FROM  A 

acter  of  its  parent  mind,  than  many  books  we  have 
known  of  much  larger  compass  and  more  boastful 
pretensions.  The  features  of  original  genius  are 
clearly  and  strongly  marked.  The  author  imi- 
tates nobody ;  we  recognize  the  spirit  of  his  age, 
but  not  the  individual  form  of  this  or  that  writer. 
His  thoughts  bear  no  more  resemblance  to  Byron 
or  Scott,  Shelley  or  Coleridge,  than  to  Homer 
or  Calderon,  Firdusf  or  Calidasa.  We  have  re- 
marked five  distinctive  excellences  of  his  own 
manner.  First  his  luxuriance  of  imagination, 

O  ' 

and  at  the  same  time,  his  control  over  it.  Sec- 
ondly, his  power  of  embodying  himself  in  ideal 
characters,  or  rather  moods  of  character,  with 
such  extreme  accuracy  of  adjustment,  that  the 
circumstances  of  the  narration  seem  to  have  a 
natural  correspondence  with  the  predominant 
feeling,  and,  as  it  were,  to  be  evolved  from  it 
by  assimilative  force.  Thirdly  his  vivid,  pictur- 
esque delineation  of  objects,  and  the  peculiar 
skill  with  which  he  holds  all  of  them  fused,  to 
borrow  a  metaphor  from  science,  in  a  medium 
of  strong  emotion.  Fourthly,  the  variety  of  his 
lyrical  measures,  and  exquisite  modulation  of 
harmonious  words  and  cadences  to  the  swell  and 
fall  of  the  feelings  expressed.  Fifthly,  the  ele- 


REVIEW   OF   TENNYSON'S  POEMS.    441 

vated  habits  of  thought,  implied  in  these  composi- 
tions, and  imparting  a  mellow  soberness  of  tone, 
more  impressive  to  our  minds,  than  if  the  au- 
thor had  drawn  up  a  set  of  opinions  in  verse, 
and  sought  to  instruct  the  understanding  rather 

o  o 

than  to  communicate  the  love  of  beauty  to  the 
heart. 

We  shall  proceed  to  give  our  readers  some 
specimens  in  illustration  of  these  remarks,  and 
if  possible,  we  will  give  them  entire  ;  for  no  poet 
can  be  fairly  judged  of  by  fragments,  least  of  all, 
a  poet  like  Mr.  Tennyson,  whose  mind  conceives 
nothing  isolated,  nothing  abrupt,  but  every  part 
with  reference  to  some  other  part,  and  in  subser- 
vience to  the  idea  of  the  whole. 


THE   END. 


CAMBRIDGE:  PRINTED  BY  H.  o.  HOUGHTON. 


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